I 




THE 



FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



4 

m 

INTENDED FOR THE 



AMUSEMENT AND INSTRUCTION 



OF 



CHILDREN. 



PHILADELPHIA : 

PUBLISHED BY T. E. CHAPMAN 

No. 74 North Fourth Street. 

1844. 




6^ \* 



KING AND BAIRD, PRINTERS, 9 GEORGE STREET, 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

The room was a large old-fashioned look- 
ing place, with many doors opening into it. 
Some of these were closet doors : one led 
to the entry which communicated with the 
"best end" of the house; one let you into 
the porch or piazza, and one opened upon 
the stairs ; the place under them making a 
very snug closet for the children, in which 
to put all things belonging to them, which 
were in daily use. If you opened this closet, 
it would at once be seen that it belonged to 
a large family; for here were slates, books, 
and neat little work boxes, placed nicely 
upon a low shelf, while " all in a row" stood 
several pairs of shoes, with strings in every 
one of them, and looking as if any size 
might be found among them. 

A large old settee occupied the west side 
of the room; it was placed between two 
windows, and here, when any little ailment 
overtook the children, they were accustomed 
to have a little bed, with its nice soft pil- 
low, and its little coverlet made just to fit. 
Here they were put where they might be 
near the mother, and see what she was 
doing all the day long : and no music ever 



4 the friend's family. 

sounded sweeter to their ears, than that 
mother's sweet hymn — 

" Hush ! my dear, lie still and slumber,. 
Holy angels guard thy bed," &c. 

Is it not a sweet hymn ? Sweetly it 
sounded to the sick child, when chanted 
by the soft low voice of its affectionate 
mother. 

I must not forget the large closet, where 
there were always some crackers or bread 
for the children to eat, when they eame in 
tired and hungry, and where sometimes, 
(but not very often,) sister Mary had some 
excellent gingerbread. Nor must I forget 
to tell you who the people were that lived 
in this house, and their names. The owner 
of the house was named T. Ellwood Stew- 
art. He was named Thomas Ellwood, after 
a friend who lived very many years ago, at 
the same time with William Penn. The 
peopleof the neighbourhood generally called 
him Mr. Stewart, but as I am a Friend, I 
must call him Ellwood Stewart; not that I 
mean to be disrespectful, but Friends think 
we ought not to say Master to any one, 
because we read in the Bible, that we 
should not call any man our master; and 
as Mr. is merely a corruption of master, 
Friends do not feel free to use the term. 

Ellwood Stewart's wife was named 
Mary, and his eldest daughter too, was 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



•called by that sweet name, which almost 
every body loves. It has a very pleasant 
sound, and besides this, we read in the 
Scriptures of Mary the mother of Jesus. 
Mary the daughter was about twenty-two 
years old; and then followed Robert and 
William, Sarah, Henry, Rebecca, Jane, 
Elizabeth, Martha, and Ellwood. A nice, 
large family of brothers and sisters to live 
together. 

Robert and William were from home ; 
the former studying medicine in Philadel- 
phia, the latter was salesman in a store. 
Sarah and Henry were both at school ; and 
it was to the five younger children, that all 
the slates, books, work boxes, and shoes in 
the closet belonged. It was a delightful 
Seventh-day afternoon, in the ninth month, 
and the children had some of their cousins 
with them, playing in the yard. 

There was a number of fine old trees in 
the yard, or lawn before the house, and 
every girl placed her back against one of 
these trees, excepting one only whom they 
called " Pussy." This one went round beg- 
ging " Poor Pussy wants a corner," and al- 
ways received the same answer, " Go to the 
next neighbour." In the mean time the 
girls at the trees were exchanging places 
with each other as rapidly as possible. If 
"Pussy" could get to a vacant tree, before 
the rightful owner, she was entitled to it ; 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



while the girl to whom it belonged, went 
begging in the same way, until she was 
dexterous enough to slip into some one 
else's place. It is a very pleasant and 
healthful exercise, when played with spirit 
and good humour. They were in sight 
from the piazza, and the air was ringing 
with their merry tones and joyous laugh- 
ter, when the mother and her oldest daugh- 
ter brought their work, to sit an hour or 
two in the open air. 

Very precious to both of these was the 
time they spent together, for they did not 
expect to be long inhabitants of the same 
house ; the daughter was about to take new 
duties upon her, and it was in allusion to 
this subject, that she said to her mother, 
" Mother, I feel as if I had not been all that 
an elder sister ought to be, to those dear 
children: I have not always been patient 
enough with them. I think I have not 
been sufficiently instructive to them, either 
by precept or example. The mother re- 
plied, " Very precious hast thou been to me, 
and very much shall I miss thee ; but thou 
art about entering a sphere of more useful- 
ness, and, I trust, of increased happiness." 
She further remarked, "As thee will not 
leave us until spring, dear Mary, perhaps 
thee can execute a design I have had in my 
mind for some time. Thee knows our 
neighbourhood is not one of Friends; and 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



the children see and hear so much, which 
tends to counteract home impressions, that 
I wish much to find some pleasant employ- 
ment for their winter evenings, which may 
be combined with theii religious instruc- 
tions. 

We have a great many books ; but most 
of the ancient journals are written in an old- 
fashioned style, distasteful to children ; and 
besides, there are so many cruel things men- 
tioned in them, that I would rather not put 
the history of such sufferings as the early 
Friends endured, into their hands. At their 
tender age, it may create hardness of heart 
towards the other sects which persecuted 
Friends with such unrelenting bigotry. Wilt 
thou then be willing to sketch a character 
occasionally from these works ? Thou hast 
read, them so frequently, that thou wilt be 
at no loss in finding all that relates to any 
particular character. I think thou canst 
make them interesting. At any rate we 
will present the children with truths, illus- 
trating the peculiar views of our society." 

Mary's face brightened, and entering at 
once upon the idea, she said, " Oh ! yes : 
there are many, many characters which 
they are fully capable of comprehending. 
Even Martha can understand about poor 
James Parnell, how sick he was, and how 
he was shut up in prison. When I read 
these books — when I see how Friends were 



8 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

beaten, imprisoned, fined and punished in 
many ways invented by the malice of man, 
and think how ' we sit at ease in our pos- 
sessions/ I feel that we do not rightly 
know and value our own standing. Many 
of us do that which is pleasing in the 
eyes of the world, because we do not like 
to bear the cross, and be singular. It is 
honourable now to bear the name of a 
Quaker.; yet we shun the cross more than 
when every opprobrious epithet was cast 
upon it." 

The autumn was beautiful; and one 
bright Seventh-day after another came and 
passed, until Martha became persuaded in 
her own mind that all Seventh-days must be 
glad sunshiny ones. While the other children 
were gone to school, she found in Elly, her 
constant playmate, a never-ending scource 
of amusement. He was almost two years 
old, and just learning to lisp his words, 
making his little sister feel very proud, when 
she had taught him a new one ; and he 
learned faster from her, than from any one 
else. The grounds around the house were 
entirely safe ; and out of doors, in the soft 
balmy air of Indian summer, the children 
felt, though they could not express it, that 
existence was a very great delight. 

Martha would put EUy's bonnet on, and., 
tying a string around her waist, give him 
the ends of it, and run about the yard, pre- 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



tending to be his horse. Sometimes he 
would try to drive through the house, which 
Patty always resisted, telling him that 
horses did not open doors, nor go into peo- 
ple's houses. 

One day, she attempted to put an old hat, 
which had belonged to her brother Henry, 
on his head; but it slipped down, burying 
his face and head altogether. She pulled it 
up, and placed it farther back, to no pur- 
pose — for the least movement would let it 
down again on his shoulders, where it rested. 
Elly stood very patiently for a good while. 
At last, finding all her efforts vain, he said, 
"nail, nail." The little fellow could say 
but one word at a time, but he had seen 
nails driven in to keep a board in its place ; 
and, remembering it, he thought that if his 
sister would nail the hat on his head, it 
would stay there. 

But these bright days drew near their 
close. The weather became cold, and nearly 
all the birds flew away to a warmer coun- 
try. There was one bird with a bright 
xed back and wings, which was not will- 
ing to leave his old home in a thick ever- 
green, whose close leaves kept all the 
snow away from him. In the evening, 
about sunset, he would perch upon a post 
in front of the house, and wait there until a 
iew crumbs were thrown out to him. He 
would then hop down, pick up the crumbs, 



10 THE FRIEND ? S FAMILY. 

and fly off to his own snug little nest. The 
children never saw him in the winter time, 
except about sunset, and then they generally 
watched for him. 

At the close of the bright days, came a 
long spell of rainy weather. The little ones 
did not fret and worry the older ones, but 
they could not go out, and sometimes would 
grow very restless. 

One day Martha, whose active, energetic 
disposition made her feel it the most, came 
and stood by her mother's side. " Oh ! mo- 
ther, what shall I do next." " What has 
thee been doing?" said the mother. "I 
have been playing with Elly and Lizzy, 
and as fast as ever I build up a house. Elly 
knocks it down; and he rubs out every 
thing I draw on the slate ; and then, when 
I went to Lizzy, she would not let me touch 
any of her things; and she is only just 
dressing her doll ;" and as she concluded, 
Martha looked up in her mother's face, with 
the air of a much injured person. " Martha," 
said her mother, " I suppose thee disturbs 
Lizzy's things, as Elly did thine ; but let 
us see if we cannot find some pleasant em- 
ployment. Does thee know that sister 
Mary, last evening after thee went to bed, 
got a very pretty patch ready for thee to 
sew ? It is in thy little work-box, which 
I do not think thee has opened to-day. 
Bring it, and the little stool." Martha did 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 11 

as her mother told her, but did not seem 
much relieved of her trouble. Her mother 
then said, "Go softly, and stand by thy 
father. Directly he will look up from his 
paper, and then ask him pleasantly, if he 
will be so kind as to read for us." Martha's 
face was covered with smiles at once, and 
she said, "And then I may sit by thee and 
sew my patchwork." The mother smiled 
and nodded an assent, while the little one 
went very joyfully to execute her commis- 
sion. 

In a few minutes all was arranged. 
Ellwood Stewart was always ready to 
gratify his family ; and, coming to the side 
of the room where his wife was, he asked 
her what she would like to have read ? 
while Mary, in obedience to an intimation 
from her mother, had already gone for her 
little manuscript. This was handed to him 
with a half blush and a whole smile. He 
read the title of it— " Sketch of the life of Tho- 
mas Ellwood." " Oh ! Father," saidMartha 
eagerly, " that is about thee, isn't it ? — does 
it tell about thee when thee was a little 
boy ? — shall I tell Lizzy to come ? — may 1 
tell them all?" "No, my little girl, it is 
not about me, but about the man I was 
named after. That is, I was called Thomas 
Ellwood, because he was called Thomas 
Ellwood. Does thee understand me ?" 
" Yes, Father ; for I was called Martha, 



12 THE FRIEND ? S FAMILY. 

because dear Grandmother Stewart's name 
was Martha, and Jane- was called Jane, 
after Grandmother Brace." " Yes, that is 
right; and now thee may call the other 
children in, and Nancy too. Give Elly a 
nice clean slate and pencil to keep him 
quiet. Poor fellow, he cannot understand 
any reading, and we must amuse him some 
other way." 

So saying — he looked over the manu- 
script, and when the children were alL 
seated, and each was employed in some 
way to keep the hands busy, as well as the 
mind, the father began 

THE STORY OF THOMAS ELLWOOD. 

Thomas Ell wood was the younger son 
of a man named Walter Ellwood. The 
Ellwood family had once been rich ; but, 
owing to many causes, had become poorer 
and poorer, until the grandfather of Tho- 
mas Ellwood and the father of Walter, 
retrieved the fallen condition of the family 
by marrying the only child of Walter Gray, 
whose name and whose estate passed into 
the possession of Walter Ellwood. 

Perhaps you do not know that, in Eng- 
land, it is the custom for the eldest son of a 
family to have all the money and lands, left 
by the father when he dies. The oldest 
brother may spend his time in luxury and 
idleness, while the others are obliged to 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 13 

work very hard, sometimes, to procure 
themselves the means of living, even with- 
out much comfort. The sisters have small 
legacies left, to them, or are left dependent 
upon the generosity of their brothers. In 
many families, it is not considered gentle- 
manly to work, and so they put the younger 
sons into the army, to kill or be killed ; or 
into the navy, where too they are expected 
to fight ; or perhaps they oblige them to 
study law or physic ; or, worse than all, to 
study how they may make money by 
preaching. Does it not seem a dreadful 
mockery to us, to have the words of life 
bought and sold ? Did not Christ say, 
"freely have you received, freely give ?" 

Thus it was at the time Thomas Ellwood 
lived, and thus it is even now in England. 
Ought we not to rejoice that our own lot 
was cast in a land so different ? c . 

Thomas Ellwood was, as I jjja^e^aid, the 
younger son of an Englishman. He was 
born in the year sixtee'n hundred and thirty- 
nine, rather more than two hundred years 
ago. When he was about two years old/ne 
was taken to London, where his father re- 
sided for some years. It was at the time of 
civil war. A civilwar means, a war car- 
ried on in a country between its own peo- 
ple, where neighbour fights against neigh- 
bour, a man against the companion whose 
hand he had clasped in friendship a month 



14 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

before — brother against brother, and father 
against son. All wars are dreadful; but 
these are the most dreadful. 

At such a period as this Thomas Ellwoo'd 
lived. The king and the parliament were 
opposed to each other — each with an army. 
The parliamentary forces overcoming those 
of the king, reduced him to submission. He 
was seized and beheaded; his party was 
enraged, and the whole country bathed in 
blood. The priests and preachers, instead 
of telling the people how wicked they were, 
encouraged them on both sides. On both 
sides they prayed for victory, and besought 
the Lord to look down upon their efforts, to 
bring ruin upon the enemy : forgetting that 
he is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity : 
forgetting that he said, " thou shalt not kill;" 
forgetting all that the meek and lowly Jesus 
ever taught Alas ! it pains me to tell you 
of the wickedness which existed in Eng- 
land, when the society of Friends first arose ; 
but you cannot appreciate the beauty and 
true nobleness of their characters and ac- 
tions, unless you see the adverse circum- 
stances by which they were surrounded. 
Walter Ellwood was not a Friend : he be- 
longed to the parliamentary side, and took 
his family to London to be under their pro- 
tection. 

Here he became acquainted with Lady 
Springett, the widow of Sir William Sprin- 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY*. 15 

gett, who died in the service of the parlia- 
ment. Lady Springett had a little daughter, 
named Gulielma, with whom Thomas Ell- 
wood spent a great deal of his time. They 
used to play together, and ride together in 
a little coach, which her footman would 
draw about. This is particularly mention- 
ed, because the renewal of his acquaintance 
with her, was the means of his being led 
towards Friends. 

While living in London, the elder brother 
was boarded at a private school, but after- 
wards, when the family went to their own 
home, both he and Thomas were sent to 
a school about three miles off. Thomas 
learned very fast indeed ; yet he was often 
whipped, for he was a very mischievous 
little boy ; and it took him such a little while 
to get his lessons, that his hands would often 
get him into trouble. He often played tricks 
upon the others, so that he would be whip- 
ped two or three times in a single day. 
Thomas never complained of this. But 
there are, I think, many other better ways 
of teaching children to be good. Thomas 
learned his lessons so fast and so well, that 
he probably would have made a very good 
scholar, if he had had the proper opportu- 
nity. But Walter Ellwood's family being 
a very expensive one, he thought he could 
not afford Thomas the advantages of a 
higher school ; particularly as the older bro- 



16 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

ther was removed to college, where he was 
entered as a fellow-commoner, and as such 
expected to spend a great deal of money. 
This was acting upon the principle already 
mentioned, that the younger brother should 
give place in every respect to the older. 

After leaving school, Thomas paid but 
little attention to his books ; until after a 
while he was afraid to read aloud, lest he 
should make some mistake in the pronunci- 
ation of a word. He had a great deal of wit 
and good sense, which enabled him to make 
himself agreeable to those with whom he 
associated, and which often drew him into 
company. 

In this way he lived until he was about 
eighteen years of age, not doing any thing 
worse than wasting his time, as other young 
men did. One day he was out riding with 
his father, and they intended going to a 
neighbouring town ; but the coachman, see- 
ing a nearer and better way than the one 
generally used, turned into it. It ran through 
a field of grain, but was quite wide enough 
for the carriage to pass without injuring it. 
There was a man ploughing not far off; he 
ran to them ; and, stopping the coach, pour- 
ed forth a shower of reproaches. Walters 
Ellwood mildly answered, that if any one 
was to blame, it was not him, but the dri- 
ver, who turned in that way without asking 
anything about it : but he told the man that 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 17 

he might come into town, and he would pay 
him, if there was any damage done. When 
they arrived in town, they were told it was 
very often used as a road, but the common 
road was close by, and pretty good too: so 
they concluded to return by the latter. It 
was late in the evening when they started, 
and very dark. The man who had troubled 
them in the morning, got another man to 
join him, to waylay them ; expecting they 
would take the same road home. But when 
they found this was not the case, they ran 
across, and catching hold of the horses' bri- 
dles, would not let them go forward. Wal- 
ter called out to the coachman, asking him 
why he did not go on. He answered there 
were two men at the horses' heads. Wal- 
ter instantly opened the coach door, and, 
stepping out, expostulated with the men 
who were armed with cudgels, and seemed 
bent upon doing mischief. He told them 
they were in danger from the law. But, 
finding what he said of no effect, he turned 
to his son who had followed him out of the 
carriage, saying, " Tom, disarm them." In 
those days it was the fashion for all those 
called gentlemen to wear swords. Accord- 
ingly Thomas drew his, and made a pass at 
the one next him; but the bright blade 
frightened the cudgel-bearer, who at once 
slipped aside, and ran off for safety : while 
his companion, too much terrified to stand 



18 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

his ground, fled likewise. Thomas followed 
them, being very much enraged at their in- 
solence; but he could not come up with 
them, and then concluded they must have 
taken shelter under some bush. He ran so 
far that in the darkness of the night he could 
not find his way back, except by shouting 
to his father, and his father shouting in re- 
turn. 

At the time, and for a good while after, 
Thomas Ellwood's only regret was, that he 
had not come up with these men. But after 
he became acquainted with the gospel truth, 
oh ! how thankful he felt that he had been 
preserved from shedding human blood. For 
though our sins may be forgiven, yet it is 
one of the most awful recollections that can 
attend a man through life, that he has rob- 
bed a fellow creature of existence. Nothing 
but the utmost dependence on the power 
and mercy of God, can reconcile a truly feel- 
ing man to himself, when he has hurried 
into the presence of his Creator one who is 
doubtless unprepared. All the battles that 
were ever fought, all the victories ever 
gained, are not worth the sacrifice of one 
life. Yet it is a noble deed to venture freely 
fortune, liberty, honour, and life, in the 
service of our Divine Creator. He gave 
them, shall they not be devoted to him ? 
Did not Jesus Christ bear all things for us ? 
He was " a man of sorrows and acquainted 



THE FRIEND- & FAMILY. 19 

with grief;" and when cruel men were about 
to take his precious life, his words, " Father, 
forgive them for they know not what they 
do/' were the fruit of the gospel spirit of 
peace, and are an example to all future ge- 
nerations. Legions of angels were at his 
prayer, yet he submitted to be " led as a 
lamb to the slaughter." If we follow him, 
must we not suffer patiently when evil 
comes upon us ? When smitten upon one 
cheek, must we not turn the other ? When 
reviled, must we not, in obedience to Christ, 
revile not again ? 

When these things came before the mind 
of Thomas Ellwood, his heart was- filled 
with gratitude towards that great Almighty 
Being who had watched over him, and kept 
him from committing so great a crime. 

It was about a year after this occurrence 
that Thomas's brother died, and soon after 
his mother also. He was very much at- 
tached to his mother, and her death proba- 
bly awakened his first serious impressions. 
Shortly after he went with his father to visit 
Lady Springett, who had married a second 
time. Her present husband was Isaac Pen- 
nington, and she with him and her daughter 
Gulielma Springett, had joined the society 
of Friends. This the Ellwoods heard on 
their way to visit them. They were at first 
amazed with their quiet manners, so differ- 
ent from the noisy trifling gayety of the 



20 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

upper classes at that day. They , ho wever, 
felt disappointed of their pleasant visit, but 
they had no opportunity of asking an expla- 
nation, as there were other visitors present. 
Thomas left the others, intending to renew 
his acquaintance with Gulielma, his little 
playfellow of former times ; and, finding her 
in the garden with her maid, he addressed 
her, as was usual in that day, with ex- 
travagant compliments. But though she 
treated him with politeness, there was so 
much quiet dignity about her, that he felt 
abashed at his own flippancy, and wanted 
assurance enough to carry him through ; so, 
asking pardon for his boldness in intruding 
on her private walks, he withdrew. They 
stayed to dinner, and then returned home, 
not very much pleased with their visit, yet 
uncertain where to find fault. 

This visit had one good effect on Walter 
Ell wood's mind. He was a magistrate, and 
frequently had Friends brought before him, 
and complained of, because they would not 
take oaths as other people did. When he 
found that his friends, persons for whom he 
had a great respect, held the same opinions, 
he felt disposed to deal with them as gently 
as the law would admit. 

A young man who lived in Buckingham- 
shire, came one First-day to a town called 
Chinner, not far from the residence of the 
Ellwoods, having something to say to the 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 21 

minister of that parish. Being somewhat 
acquainted with the young man, Thomas 
went to hear him. He stood in the aisle 
before the pulpit all the time of the sermon,, 
not speaking a word until it was ended ; 
and then spoke a few words to the priest, 
of which all that Thomas could hear 
was, " That the prayer of the wicked is 
abomination to the Lord :" and that " God 
heareth not sinners." He said more than 
this, however, though Thomas did not hear 
what it was; but he was interrupted by the 
officers, who took him before Walter Ell- 
wood. When Thomas found they were 
going to take him there, he hastened home 
to tell his father about it ; and mentioned 
that the man behaved quietly and peace- 
ably, not speaking at all until the minister 
had done preaching; and then what he said 
was short, and delivered without any pas- 
sion or ill language. 

Accordingly, the officers soon made their 
appearance, bringing the man with them, 
and charging him with making a public 
disturbance. Walter Ellwood asked them 
when he spoke ; they answered, " when 
the minister had concluded." He asked, 
what words he used: this they could not 
agree in. He then asked if he had used any 
reviling language, and finding he had not, 
he dismissed the case, counselling the young 
man against making any trouble. 









%2 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 



In the tenth month, 1659, the Ellwood 
family paid another visit to the Penning- 
tons. Walter being desirous of acquaint- 
ing himself with Friends' principles, they 
stayed several days; and as a Friend's meet- 
ing was appointed in the neighbourhood, 
they were invited to attend, which they 
did. This meeting was held in the large 
hall of an old house, which once belonged 
to a gentleman, but was now used as a 
farm-house. It was named the Grove. 
Here were several Friends, but none spoke 
except Edward Burrough. Thomas Ell- 
wood was sitting next him, and drank in 
his words with avidity, for they not only 
reached his understanding, but warmed his 
heart. After the meeting concluded Ed- 
ward Burrough went home with the Pen- 
ningtons. The evenings were long ; and 
the servants of the family, being Friends, 
were called in, and after sitting a while in 
silence, Edward Burrough spoke again. 
But Walter Ellwood not agreeing with him, 
raised some objections. James Nailor, who 
was there, then took the subject up, and 
spoke with such a clear understanding of it, 
that Walter had nothing more to say. James 
and Edward then gently dropped the argu- 
ment, and they all withdrew to their re- 
spective chambers. 

In the morning, Thomas, his father and 
younger sister prepared to return home : 



the friend's family. 23 

the older one (for he had two) had gone 
on to London from the Penningtons. All 
the way, Thomas, who rode behind the 
coach on horseback, could hear his father 
and sister conversing pleasantly together, 
but he could not join with them, for his 
heart felt sad and very heavy, though he 
knew not what ailed him. They reached 
home that night; and next day Thomas 
went to hear the minister at Chinner preach; 
the last time, as he says, he ever went to 
hear one. 

He now felt very desirous of attending a 
Friends' meeting, and got his father's man 
to inquire if there was any in the neighbour- 
hood. He heard of one about seven miles 
off, which Thomas concluded to attend : but 
as he did not like to be seen going to a 
Friends' meeting, he took his greyhound 
with him, as if he went out coursing. 

When he came to the place, and had put 
his horse up at an inn, he was at a loss 
where to go ; and not wishing to inquire 
at the inn, he went into the street. Here 
he had not been long before he saw a man 
riding up, that he remembered having met 
at Isaac Pennington's, and followed him, 
concluding he was going to meeting, as 
indeed he was. Thomas followed him 
into the house, and sat down on the first 
empty chair he came to ; some of them 
looking at him, for he was fashionably drest, 



24 THE FRIEND^ family. 

and had his sword by his side. ...... 

Samuel Thornton, who was present, spoke, 
and his words were very suitable to Tho- 
mas's case, so that he felt as if they were 
directed to him. When the meeting was 
over, he got his horse and hurried home, 
so that his father might not notice his 
absence. 

This last meeting confirmed the feelings 
awakened at the first, and he became sen- 
sible that he too had a place to fill, an 
allotted part to perform. His general 
trouble and confusion beginning to wear 
off, he saw that though he had mercifully 
been preserved from many evil things, yet 
the spirit of the world had hitherto ruled in 
him, and led him into pride, vanity, super- 
fluity, and flattery. Now he found he 
must not only abstain from indulgence in 
these things, but he must bring his very 
thoughts into subjection ; knowing no guid- 
ing power save that new law, the spirit of 
life in Christ Jesus. He felt he must first 
" cease to do evil/' and then "learn to do 
well." 

In those days, such as were called gen- 
tlemen dressed in lace, ribbons, buttons, 
and rings. Their apparel was very gay 
and very inconvenient ; their shoes were 
made with long points turned up, and 
fastened to the knee, by long ribbons ; 
their clothes were* trimmed with lace, and 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 25 

their hair worn in long ringlets. These 
things, in which Thomas had taken much 
delight, he was now forced to lay aside : 
not that Friends adopted any singular cos- 
tume ; they retained that of the times, 
merely leaving off those parts which were 
of no use. The great Creator has not 
ordered us to wear a bonnet or hat of this 
shape, or a coat of that colour. He says, 
" give me thy heart," and if we think we 
can give him our hearts, and yet give all 
our attention to the adorning of our per- 
sons, we shall find that this is impossible. 
If our hearts are truly turned towards the 
Lord, it matters but little how the body is 
arrayed, so that it is neat, clean, and decent. 
When the earlier Friends first associated 
together, persecution after persecution rolled 
upon them like the waves of the sea ; and 
to minds so engaged as theirs must have 
been, necessary clothing and necessary food 
must have been all that was needed. 

It is the mark of a mind unused to being 
filled with more important matter, to be 
much occupied with this comparatively 
trivial subject. We sometimes find people 
who value themselves upon dressing plainly 
even when they wear costly stuffs. It ap- 
pears tome that sometimes when a soul ca- 
pable of noble things, becomes debased by 
the love of finery, our Creator, willing to test 
our obedience, requires us to adopt a par- 

2 



26 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

ticular mode in order to convince our own 
minds which we love best, our own selfish 
gratification, or obedience to the intimation 
revealed to us above. If we feel so con- 
vinced, let us at once endeavour to crush 
all opposition to his will, being assured it 
is for our own peace best that we should 
do so. 

But to return to Thomas Ellwood. When 
he divested himself of his ornaments, which 
his father took, telling him he would keep 
them for him until he came to his reason 
again, he found there was yet more for him 
to give up— which was his character as a 
polite gentleman. 

It was the fashion to bow, sometimes 
sinking on one knee, and to use the terms 
of " my master," "my lord," "my dame," 
" your servant," and many others ; and he 
who omitted them was considered as rough 
and ill-bred. Thomas being no man's ser- 
vant, could no longer imply he was, without 
violating the truth. And these principles 
made the Friends different in dress and ad- 
dress from any other persuasion whatever. 
Thomas felt that he could do all that was 
required of him, except change his manner 
towards his father : yet he had learned there 
was one nearer and dearer than even his 
father, and for his sake he had put his hand 
to the gospel plough, and should he now 
turn back? 



the friend's family. 27 

While his mind was in this state, his 
father sent him to Oxford to attend to some 
business for him, and to bring him an ac- 
count of what was going on there. Thomas 
felt it almost impossible for him to go, as he 
should meet with many of his young com- 
rades there. But as he had never resisted 
his fathers will, he could not do so now. 
So he did not attempt to make any excuse; 
but ordering his horse to be got ready very 
early in the morning, he went to bed. 
Here as he lay upon his pillow, there was 
a great struggle in his breast. He began 
to think how he should behave in court, 
and how he should dispatch the business 
upon which his father sent him. He had 
been accustomed to meet with many gen- 
tlemen there, and to be very merry with 
them; now he could not pull off his hat, — 
he could not bow, — nor could he address 
them in the customary manner. He there- 
fore prayed earnestly that he might be pre- 
served through all the temptations of the 
day, and his mind becoming more easy, he 
fell asleep. 

Next morning he felt calm and quiet, yet 
afraid he should say something he ought 
not; for he had been so accustomed to 
complimentary phrases without any mean- 
ing, that it was much more easy to say 
them than to remain quiet. As he rode 
along, he prayed again, " Oh my God, pre- 



2S THE FRIEND'S FAMILT. 

serve me faithful, whatever may befall me* 
Suffer me not to be drawn into evil, how 
much soever scorn and contempt may be 
cast upon me." 

When he arrived at Oxford, he put up 
his horse, and went directly to the hall 
where the sessions were held, and had 
been there but a short time, before a little 
group of his acquaintance seeing him, came 
up to speak to him. One of these was a 
scholar in his gown, another a surgeon of 
the city, the third a country gentleman 
whom Thomas had long known. When 
these came up, they all saluted him in the 
usual manner, pulling off their hats, bow- 
ing and saying "your humble servants sir/' 
expecting, no doubt, that he would do the 
same. But when they saw him standing 
still, moving neither cap nor knee, they 
looked at each other, much surprised and 
without speaking. At length the surgeon, 
who stood near him, clapped his hand upon 
his shoulder, and smiling, said, " What ! 
Tom a Quaker ?" To which he readily and 
cheerfully answered, " yes, a Quaker;" and 
as the words passed from his mouth, he felt 
great joy spring up in his heart that he had 
strength given him to confess himself one 
of those despised people. They stayed not 
long, but taking their leave in the same 
ceremonious manner, departed. 

After they were gone, he walked about 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 29 

the hall, and went up nearer the court, to 
observe what justices were on the bench, 
and what business they had before them. 
He went in fear, not of what they would 
or could do to him, but lest he should be 
surprised into saying something which he 
ought not. It was not long before the 
court adjourned for dinner, and that time 
Thomas took to go to the clerk of the 
peace. As soon as he came to the room 
where he was, the clerk met and saluted 
him, and though he appeared somewhat 
startled at Thomas's carriage and beha- 
viour, he made no remark, but behaved 
Very respectfully to him. 

After concluding his father's business, he 
withdrew, intending to return home. But 
on looking into the street from the inn where 
he had left his horse, he saw three justices 
standing in the way where he was to ride ; 
and this brought a fresh concern upon him. 
He was pretty sure they would stop him to 
inquire about his father, and feared they 
would not let him off. This doubting led 
him to contriving how he should go out 
without being seen, and as he knew the 
city pretty well, he thought of a back way. 
Yet this did not seem right, and he stood a 
good while hoping the justices would walk 
off, but they still continued there. At last, 
he persuaded himself to go the back way, 
which brought much trouble and grief on 



30 the friend's family. 

him, because he shunned tfre cross. He 
then felt willing to yield in all things, ex- 
cept his deportment towards his father, and 
thought it might be right to make a differ- 
ence between him and other men in this 
respect. So when he came home, he went 
to his father bareheaded, to give him an 
account of his business, and, behaving as 
usual, Walter found no fault with him. 

Thomas was very desirous of going to 
meetings, and of visiting friends ; but as he 
had no horse of his own, and felt unwilling 
to use his father's, when he knew the latter 
would object, — he thought it would be 
better to borrow one of an acquaintance, 
who wished to sell it, or have it kept for 
its work. Accordingly he dispatched his 
father's man, to get the horse and bring 
him over. The next day Thomas con- 
cluded to go to Isaac Pennington's, and 
rising very early, got ready. But think- 
ing it better to pay all due respect to his 
father, he sent a person up stairs to tell 
him where he was going, and to ask if he 
had any commands. — Walter sent down 
for his son, wishing to see him before he 
started. So Thomas went up to his father's 
bed-side, who said, " I understand you have 
a mind to go to Mr. Pennington's." "I 
have so," said Thomas. " Why," said the 
father, "1 wonder you should; you were 
there, you know, only a few days ago. 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 31 

Don't you think it will look oddly ?" 
Thomas answered, that he did not think 
it would. His father replied, "I doubt 
you will tire them of your company, and 
make them think they will be troubled 
with you.* "Oh!" said Thomas, "if I 
find any thing of that sort, I will make the 
shorter stay/' " But can you propose any 
sort of business there," said his father, 
" beyond a mere visit ?" " Yes :" Thomas 
replied; he not only proposed to see 
them, but to have some conversation with 
them. His father then said in a harsher 
tone, " I hope you don't incline to be of 
their way?" "Truly," said Thomas, "I 
like them and their way very well, so 
far as I understand it ; and am desirous 
of going to them, that I may understand it 
better." Thereupon Walter Ellwood be- 
gan to reckon up as many faults as possible 
against the Quakers ; telling his son they 
were a rude, unmannerly people; — that 
would not give civil respect or honour to 
their superiors ; no, not even to magis- 
trates; and that they held many dangerous 
principles. To all these charges, Thomas 
could only reply, they might be misrepre- 
sented as the best of men had been. And 
after a little more conversation, Walter told 
his son, he wished he would not go so 
soon, but take a little time to consider it, 
and that he might visit Mr. Pennington's 



32 the friend's family. 

afterwards. " Nay, sir/' said his son, " pray 
don't hinder my going now ; for I have so 
strong a desire to go, that I do not well 
know how to forbear." As he said these 
words, he retreated quietly to the chamber- 
door ; then hastening down stairs, he went 
immediately to the stable, and finding his 
horse ready, started at once, fearing his 
father would send him word he must not go. 

This discourse detained him a while. The 
roads being bad, and his horse not very 
good, it was afternoon before he reached 
Isaac Pennington's. The servant who came 
to the door, told Thomas there was a meet- 
ing in the house. He hastened in; and, 
knowing the rooms, went directly to the 
little parlour, where the Friends were 
seated in silence. When the meeting was 
ended, and those who were strangers had 
withdrawn, Isaac Pennington and his wife 
received their guest very courteously; and 
not knowing he had been under exercise, 
evinced no unusual cordiality. But when 
they came to see a change in dress, gesture, 
speech, and manner, they were exceedingly 
kind and tender towards him. 

Thomas spent that evening with them, 
conversing very little ; but, as he says, 
feeling great satisfaction in b^ing still and 
quiet, his spirit being drawn near to the 
Lord. Before he went to bed, they told him 
of another meeting to be held next day, not 



THE friend's family. 33 

far from there, which some of the family 
expected to attend. Of this he was very 
glad, particularly as it was on his road 
home. Of this meeting Thomas said, " A 
very good meeting was this in itself, and to 
me. — Edward Burrough, a noted Friend, 
and one who afterwards sealed his testi- 
mony with his blood, was present and spoke 
with life and power. Thomas was not 
only confirmed in his religious views, but 
some things were opened to his mind which 
he had not seen clearly before. So true it 
is, that as we continue faithful, more and 
more light is given unto us, even until we 
come to the perfect day. 

Several Friends who were there noticed 
him as one whom they had met before, and 
invited him home with them 5 but Edward 
Burrough going to Isaac Pennington's 
drew him thither again. He felt as if it 
would do him good to ride with Edward, 
hoping that he would offer him some en- 
couragement in his new path : but he see- 
ing that the right spirit was at work in 
Thomas's bosom, gave him no opportunity 
of pouring forth doubts, fears, and question- 
ings. For he was sensible that the guidance 
of the Good Spirit in ourselves is what we 
must attend to, and that no man, however 
capable, can teach us as the Holy Spirit. 
Edward was naturally of a free and open 
temper, and afterwards was very familiar 



34 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

and affectionate with Thomas ; yet now he 
thought it right to show him only common 
kindness. 

The next day they parted, Edward for 
London, and Thomas for his own home, 
under a great weight and exercise of spirit. 
He now saw that he had not been clear in 
his reasonings respecting his father. He 
saw that the honour due to parents did not 
consist in bowing the body or uncovering 
the head, but in a ready obedience to their 
lawful commands, and in performing all 
needful services unto them. So he plainly 
saw that he could no longer continue his 
former mode of manifesting respect, with- 
out drawing on himself the guilt of wilful 
disobedience. 

On his way home, he was much troubled, 
for he thought of his father's anger, and of 
the severities which would be heaped upon 
his head ; and then he prayed that he might 
be preserved through temptation, and en- 
abled to bear all that might be inflicted 
on him. When he got home he expected a 
rough reception; but his father was abroad. 
He sat down in the kitchen, and keeping 
silence, prayed that the Lord might pre- 
serve him from falling. 

After some time, he heard the coach drive 
in, which put him in such a fear that a 
shivering came over him. But by the time 
Walter had alighted, and come in, he had 



the friend's family. .35 

somewhat recovered himself. As soon as 
Thomas saw him, rising and advancing a 
step or two towards him, and keeping his 
hat on, he said, "Isaac Pennington and 
his wife remember their loves to thee." 
Walter Ellwood stopped abruptly, and ob- 
serving that his son stood covered before 
him, and that he used the word "thee" 
with a stern countenance and a tone which 
indicated great displeasure, said, " I shall 
talk with you another time,," and then 
hastily walked into the parlour, so that 
Thomas did not see him again that night. 
He foresaw there was a storm arising, but 
the peace he felt in his own mind was more 
than a recompense, though it grieved him 
much to offend his hitherto kind parent. 

There was to be a meeting next day at 
Oxford, and Thomas feeling a great desire 
to attend, ordered his borrowed horse to 
be got ready early in the morning in order 
to go to it. He was anxious to consult 
his father's feelings as much as possible ; 
and after he was ready, desired his sister to 
go up to his father's chamber, and tell him. 
that he was going to Oxford, and wished to 
know if he had any commands. His father 
sent a message to him not to go until he 
came down ; and getting up immediately 
he hastened down, partly dressed. When 
he saw Thomas standing with his hat on, 
he was so transported with rage that he 



36 the friend's family. 

struck him with both fists, and plucking 
his hat off, threw it away. Then stepping 
hastily out to the stable, and seeing the bor- 
rowed horse standing saddled and bridled 
he inquired whose it was. His man telling 
him, he said, " Then ride him back and tell 

Mr. I desire he will never lend my 

son his horse again, unless he brings a note 
from me." The poor fellow, who was 
fond of his young master, did not like to 
carry this message, and was disposed to 
make excuses or delays ; but Walter was 
positive in his commands, and would not 
let the man eat his breakfast, nor go out of 
his sight until he mounted the horse and 
rode off. Then coming in he went up 
stairs to finish dressing, thinking his so& 
safe enough at home, — as he was not very 
fond of walking. 

Thomas, seeing the horse go off, under- 
stood how matters went ; and, being very 
desirous of going to the meeting, changed 
his boots for shoes and got another hat. 
He also told his sister, who loved him 
dearly, and whom he could trust, where he 
was going, and, slipping out privately, 
walked seven long miles to meet some 
Friends. After he had started, he could 
not help thinking, that perhaps it was 
wrong in him thus to steal away from his 
father, and he stood still a while, not know- 
ing whether to go back or forward. Fear 



the friend's family. 37 

of offending his father, would have turned 
him back, while the desire to be with 
Friends, impelled him forward. He thought 
within himself how could that feeling be of 
the Lord if it induced him to disobey his 
father ? Yet he was conscious that it was 
not in his own will, nor with intention to 
give his father pain. Thus he went on 
reasoning, until the passage of Scripture — 
" Children obey your parents in the Lord" 
occurred to him ; after which he went on 
more cheerfully, and was received with 
great kindness and tenderness by the 
Friends there. 

After Thomas left home, his father, sup^- 
posing him to have gone up to his chamber, 
made no inquiry about him till evening. 
The weather was very cold, and he and his 
daughter were sitting comfortably together 
by the fire, when he said to her, " Go up to 
your brother's chamber, and bring him 
down ; it may be he will sit there else, in a 
sullen fit, until he has caught cold." " Alas ! 
sir," said she, " he is not in his chamber, 
nor in the house neither." " Why, where 
is he then ?" said the father, starting up in 
alarm. " I know not," said she, " where he 
is, sir ; but I know that when he saw you 
had sent away his horse, he put his shoes 
on, and went out on foot ; and I have not 
seen him since. And indeed, sir, I don't 
wonder at his going away, considering how 



38 the friend's family. 

you used him." Walter had not foreseen 
this firmness in one who was wont to obey 
every intimation of his father's will, and 
fearing he would never return, he poured 
forth his lamentations so loudly that the 
family could hear him. He went to bed 
immediately, where he passed a restless 
night, bemoaning himself, and grieving over 
his son. Next morning, his daughter sent 
a man to find her brother, and give him 
this account, entreating him to return home 
as soon as possible ; yet in case he should 
not return, she sent fresh linen for his use. 

Thomas was very sorry for his father's 
uneasiness, and would have returned home 
that evening after meeting ; but the Friends 
persuaded him to stay, saying, the meeting 
would probably end late, and that the days 
were short, and the road long and muddy. 
Besides which, one of the Friends there, 
promised to go home with him and talk 
with his father. This was doubtless in- 
tended in kindness to Thomas, but it appears 
to have been ill judged. 

The next day Thomas went home, accom- 
panied by this Friend ; and as they drew 
near the place, they planned that Thomas 
should go in the back way, and seat himself 
in the kitchen ; while the Friend should 
desire to see his father, and take that oppor- 
tunity of expostulating with him. When 
Walter Ellwood heard that some one de- 



the friend's family. 39 

sired to speak with him, he went into the 
hall, and was much surprised at finding a 
Quaker waiting for him there. Yet not 
knowing on what account he came, he 
stayed to hear his business ; and when he 
found it concerned his own son, he fell on 
him very sharply, probably considering it a 
piece of great impertinence in a person who 
had been instrumental in misleading his 
son, to offer him any advice respecting his 
treatment of that son. Turning away from 
the Friend, he went into the kitchen, and 
there found Thomas standing with his hat 
on his head. Heated with his conversation, 
he seemed to forget that this was the son 
over whom he had so lately mourned, as 
lost; and his grief turning to anger, he 
could not contain it, but running pas- 
sionately towards him, he snatched off his 
hat and threw it away ; then striking him 
on the head he ordered him to go up to his 
own chamber. Thomas obeyed, and his 
father followed him, giving a blow every 
few steps ; as he went through the hall, the 
Friend who came with him, could see how 
little his untimely interference between 
father and son, had mended matters. 

Was it not strange that Walter Ellwood 
should become so enraged at his son, merely 
because he kept his hat on before him ? 
But this shows that in those days men had 
made an idol of that kind of respect, ren- 



40 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

dering it incumbent upon Friends to bear a 
faithful testimony against it, by suffering 
fines, imprisonments, and cruel beatings* 
rather than bow down to this idol. Any 
one thing upon which we improperly set 
our hearts, becomes an idol to us. If we 
love and value it, more than we do our 
Creator, we worship it. This we must not 
do, or we become as blinded as the poor 
heathen, who "bow down to wood or 
stone." Any feeling of pride, or vanity, or 
self-importance, which stands between us 
and our Creator, has become an idol, and 
we are bound to destroy that feeling, or 
reduce it to subjection. 

Many, very many children and grown 
people, who call themselves Christians, 
would find they had idols, if they would 
strictly examine their own hearts. 

It does not appear to me, to be of any 
great consequence in itself, whether a man 
pulled his hat off merely by way of saluta- 
tion or fiot. But when the custom had 
grown to be an idol, it was of great conse- 
quence to break it. We ought to respect 
and venerate those persons who suffered so 
much upon this account. 

Walter Ellwood was so determined that 
his son should not wear his hat in his pre- 
sence, that after snatching it off his head, he 
would not give it to him again, but put it 
aside where it would not be found. Thomas 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 41 

then put on another hat, which his father 
soon tore violently from him; so that 
he found himself obliged to go bare- 
headed, for the want of hat or cap. This 
occurred in the eleventh month; and the 
weather being very severe, he caught a 
heavy cold, so that his head and face swelled 
very much, and his gums became so sore 
that he could put nothing in his mouth but 
liquids. His kind sister waited on him, 
and did every thing she could for his relief, 
but his father did not seem to feel much 
pity for him. 

Thomas Ellwood was very much of a 
prisoner that winter ; for he could not go 
about the country without a hat, and his 
father took care he should not have the 
means of getting one. So he spent the time 
in his chamber, reading the Bible, and 
silently waiting on the Lord. Doubtless it 
was excellently spent in learning to bear 
the cross. 

Whenever he had occasion to speak to 
his father, he offended him by saying "thee" 
or " thou" At one of these times, after 
beating him, and commanding him to go to 
his chamber, which he usually did when 
affronted at him, Walter followed him to 
the foot of the staircase, and giving him a 
parting blow, said, " If ever I hear you say 
'thee'' or 'thou' to me again, I will strike 
the teeth down your throat." Thomas was 



42 THE FKIEND'S FAMILY. 

greatly grieved to hear his father utter these 
passionate words ; and turning to him, he 
calmly said, " Would it not be just for God 
to serve thee so, when thou sayest thee or 
thou to him?" His father's hand was up 
to strike him again, yet it sunk, and his 
countenance changed at these words, so 
that he turned away. Then Thomas went 
up into his chamber and prayed to the 
Lord, earnestly beseeching him that he 
would be pleased to open his father's eyes, 
that he might see whom he fought against, 
and for what ; and that he might be pleased 
to turn his heart. 

For some time after this, Walter said 
nothing to Thomas, and gave him no occa- 
sion to speak to him. But this calm was 
not of long duration, for there was another 
storm occurred soon after. 

In his younger years, and more especially 
while he lived in London, his father 
had been in the habit of attending the 
meetings of the Puritans, and had stored 
up a stock of Scripture knowledge. He 
sometimes, but not frequently, caused his 
family to come together on First-day even- 
ing to hear him expound a chapter and 
pray. The family was now very small. 
His wife and oldest son were now both 
dead ; his eldest daughter was in London, 
and he kept but two servants. It so hap- 
pened that one First-day evening, he bid his 



THE FRIEND r S FAMILY. 43 

daughter who sat in the parlour with himy 
to call the servants into prayer. 

Perhaps this was intended as a trial to 
Thomas ; at any rate, it proved one : for 
the servants, loving their young master, did 
not go in until they were sent for a second 
time. This offended Walter: and when 
they went in, instead of going on with the 
evening exercises, he asked them why they 
had not come in at first : — and the excuse 
they gave only heightened his displeasure. 
He said, " Call in that fellow," (meaning 
his son,) " he is the cause of all this." The 
servants hesitated to obey ; for they were 
sure the blame would all fall upon him. 
But Thomas hearing his father, went 
in without waiting for them. His father 
showered out reproaches against him, using 
sharp and bitter expressions ; until Thomas 
was induced to say, " They that can pray 
with such a spirit, let them ; for my part I 
cannot." 

This so enraged Walter, that he not only 
struck him with his fists, but, getting his 
cane, he struck him with it so violently, 
that Thomas raised his arms to protect his 
head from the blows. The man-servant 
then stept in between them ; and, catching 
the cane in his hand held it fast ; which 
made the father still more angry, if possible. 
Thomas perceiving this, bade the man let 
go his hold, and go away ; in doing which, 



44 THE friend's family. 

as he turned he received a blow on his 
own shoulders. But now the sister inter- 
fered ; and, begging her father to forbear, 
she declared if he did not, she would throw 
open the casement, and call for h^lp; for 
indeed she was afraid he would murder her 
brother. This stopt his arm ; and after 
some threatening speeches, he told Thomas 
to go to his chamber ; whither he always 
sent him, when displeased. His sister fol- 
lowed him, and dressed his arm, which was 
much bruised and swollen, and the skin was 
broken in several places. Yet he felt that 
peace and quiet in his own mind which far 
overbalanced all his sufferings. His father 
too, seemed to have exhausted himself in 
this last burst of passion, for he never treated 
him so severely again, 

His older sister returned from London 
soon after this, and her love for Thomas 
induced hereto pity rather than despise him, 
though she had imbibed a great dislike for the 
Quakers generally. The winter passed away 
slowly as it seemed to Thomas, who was 
taking his first lessons in the school of 
affliction ; but spring had some consolation 
in f store for him, in the shape of a visit 
from his friends, Isaac and Mary Penning- 
ton. His father had a great regard for the 
latter, with whom he had been so well ac- 
quainted when she bore the name of Lady 
Springett. In conversation with her after 



the friend's family. 45 

her husband and she had joined Friends, 
but before Thomas Ellwood had, she told 
him how cruelly Isaac's father had used him 
because he would not pull off his hat. This 
Walter seemed surprised to hear, and con- 
demned, as not only wicked but absurd. 
He little thought how soon he would imi- 
tate the conduct he professed so heartily to 
despise. Mary reminded him of this, and 
tried by every means in her power to 
soften his displeasure towards his son. It 
availed but little, however, and seeing how 
very uncomfortable the son seemed, she 
begged he might be permitted to return 
home with her. This Walter resisted as 
long as he could ; being unwilling probably 
to have his son go with Quakers : but at 
last consented to the proposal if Thomas 
wished it. Thomas was very willing to go, 
but he had no hat ; and being about to get 
into the coach without one, his sister whis- 
pered to her father, asking if she might not 
get one for him. He told her she might ; 
while she ran into the house to get it, he 
conversed with Isaac and Mary who were 
already seated : but when he saw the sister 
coming with the hat, he took leave of them 
abruptly, and went in, fearing the hat would 
be put on before him. 

Thomas was not allowed any money to 
take with him, and his father had taken 
from him all that would do to sell. But he 



46 THE friend's family. 

was going among kind friends, and needed 
nothing they did not provide for him. He 
stayed six or seven weeks very happily at 
the Grange, which was the name of the 
place upon which the Penningtons lived ; 
and then feeling it would be right, Thomas 
concluded to return to his own home again. 
When he arrived there his father treated 
him more kindly, although Thomas per- 
sisted in wearing his hat even at the table. 
Indeed Walter was wearied out with oppo- 
sition, and after this avoided seeing Thomas 
as much as possible, though he treated him 
more respectfully when forced to notice 
him. One reason of this may have been, 
that if he should ever wish to sell his estate, 
(which seemed likely,) his son's consent 
would be necessary. He also intended 
going up- to London ; and as Thomas would 
be left at home, they would not meet for a 
long time. So he was permitted to make 
just such use of his time as pleased him 
best : and he spent a great deal of it in 
going to meetings. But he had no horse to 
ride, and often waded ancle deep in the 
mud. His father once or twice tried to lock 
the doors, so that he should not go out, but 
there was generally a back way unguarded, 
so that he could slip off without any words 
passing between them. His sisters were 
very kind to him, and though they could 
•not think as he did, they saw he was sin- 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 47 

cere, and they endeavoured to mitigate their 
father's anger as much as possible. 

After his father and sisters went up to Lon- 
don, which they did when Thomas wasabout 
twenty-two years old, leaving him at the old 
house with no one but the housekeeper, — 
he was taken with the small-pox, which he 
had very badly indeed. When the Friends 
heard of it, they sent a nurse to take care 
of him. Under her care he soon got better, 
but was not able to go out for a long time. 
Feeling very lonely, he commenced a course 
of reading in order to occupy his mind 
until he could go out of the house ; but his 
sight being very weak from his late illness, 
he soon impaired it so much, that he was 
forced to give up his studies. No sooner 
was he able than he hastened to Isaac Pen- 
nington's, and here he became more sensible 
of his want of general information than he 
had ever been before. 

The society Thomas met with at Isaac 
Pennington's, soon occasioned him to feel 
his own deficiency ; and, speaking earnestly 
upon this subject to Isaac, he offered him all 
the assistance in his power. He was ac- 
quainted with an eminent physician in Lon- 
don, named Paget; and Dr. Paget was a 
friend of John Milton. Milton's sight was 
entirely gone ; and he usually employed a 
person, generally a gentleman's son, to read 
to him. This was the situation that Isaac 



48 THE FRIEND > S FAMILY. 

Pennington wished for Thomas Ellwood : 
knowing that Milton had access to the best 
works which were published, and that his 
comments and remarks would be very use- 
ful in forming a young person's taste. This 
was procured by the mediation of Dr. Paget, 
and Thomas, going up to London, availed 
himself of it, by reading aloud to Milton 
certain hours every day. In order to sup- 
port himself, he dismissed the servant, and 
sold all the provision left in the house. 

Milton perceiving Thomas's earnest de- 
sire to learn, gave him much encouragement 
and assistance, and taught him the proper 
pronunciation of his Latin words. He had a 
very quick ear, and could tell by the tone 
whether his pupil understood what he was 
reading ; and if he did not, would stop him 
and explain the difficult passages. In this 
way Thomas went on for some time, study- 
ing in the forenoon, and reading to Milton 
in the afternoon. But his health, probably 
not yet fully established after his illness, 
gave way, and he was obliged to leave town 
just as he was becoming sensible of some 
improvement. He went into the country, 
where he remained some time and was very 
ill ; but by nursing and care, he recovered 
again. His father sent him enough money 
to pay the expenses of his illness. 

As soon as he was well enough, he re- 
sumed his attendance on Milton, who was 



the friend's family. 49 

very glad to receive him again. Scarcely 
was he at his learning again, before he, with 
many other Friends, was taken up on a 
pretended suspicion of being concerned in 
a plot against the government. They were 
kept in prison several months, but not under 
a very rigid treatment ; for they were often 
allowed to absent themselves for a day or 
two, giving their words to be back at an 
appointed time. 

This shows that, with all their prejudices 
against the Friends, the officers of govern- 
ment placed dependence upon their words. 
Indeed, it often happened, that a jailer, 
finding it inconvenient to accompany his 
prisoners from one jail to another, would 
start them off by themselves ; merely re- 
quiring their promise that they would be at 
the place at the appointed time, if nothing 
prevented : and to their honour be it said, 
this confidence, we have reason to think, 
was never abused. 

After Thomas Ellwood was discharged 
from prison, which he was without question 
or trial, he waited upon Milton again, but 
thought it better not to recommence his 
reading until he saw Isaac Pennington. 
# Isaac was in poor health, so that he was 
confined to his chamber ; and being very 
anxious about his children, he asked Thomas 
if he would take charge of their education 
until another teacher could be procured. To 

3 



50 the friend's family. 

this plan Thomas consented, being unwil- 
ling to refuse so small a favour to one who 
had so often stood his friend ; and he soon 
found he was improving himself as fast by- 
teaching the children, as he could have 
done, even under Milton's tuition. Isaac 
Pennington appearing to be well satisfied, 
Thomas continued with the family, as tutor 
to his children, for seven years ; indeed, 
until he married. 

While at the Grange, his father came 
down to see the Penningtons, and he be- 
haved very civilly to Thomas, inviting him 
to London, to see his sisters, who were both 
married and had settled there. Thomas 
accordingly went, and stayed a short time 
with them ; but returned again to the Pen- 
ningtons, who had their share of hardship. 
The family was entirely broken up at one 
time; — Isaac in one prison, — Thomas in 
another, and the other members all scat- 
tered. When this persecution passed over, 
how happy did they feel to meet in their 
own pleasant home again — father, mother, 
children, and friends, all together once more. 

Gulielma Springett was a very lovely 
young woman ; and a great many persons 
who admired her, would have liked to f 
marry her. But she refused one proposal 
of the kind after another, until some of them 
said, it must be because she intended to 
marry Thomas Ellwood, who was always 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 51 

there, and had every opportunity of plead- 
ing his cause. Thomas admitted that he 
did admire her very much indeed ; but he 
thought such a marriage would not be 
agreeable to her mother, and Ke'felt bound 
in honour not to attempt to create any 
other interest in her bosom, but that which 
might be felt by a dear and gentle sister. 

In sixteen hundred and sixty-five, a great 
pestilence broke out in London. It was 
called the Plague, and many thousands 
died of it. All who had the means left the 
city ; and among the rest, John Milton, who 
wrote to Thomas Ellwood to procure him 
a lodging in the country ; which he did. 
After Milton was settled in his new home, 
Thomas called on him ; and before he left, 
Milton gave him a manuscript to look 
over, desiring his opinion. On returning it, 
Thomas told him he admired it very much 
indeed. It was called "Paradise Lost;" 
and the world has since confirmed Thomas's 
judgment. In giving it back, he said 
pleasantly to its author, " Thou hast said 
a great deal about Paradise lost, canst 
thou not tell us something of Paradise 
found" Milton paused, and did not answer 
him ; but turned the conversation on another 
subject. Some months after Milton had 
gone back to London, Thomas happening 
to be in town, waited upon him ; and Mil- 
ton, showing him the manuscript of "Para- 



52 the friend's family. 

dise Regained" said pleasantly, " This is 
owing 'to you; for you put it into my head 
by the question you asked, when at Chal- 
font. I had not thought of it before." 

Walter Ellwood, wishing to break the 
entail on his estate, was obliged to request 
his son's concurrence, as the place could not 
be sold without his consent. Thomas, happy 
to oblige his father, whenever he could do 
so without compromising his religious prin- 
ciples, cheerfully acceded to his proposal ; 
though well aware that it would cut him off 
from all share or right in his father's pro- 
perty. But his own exertions would supply 
him with all that was needful ; and he had 
learned to forego superfluities. 

Thomas Ellwood had always regarded 
marriage as a divine institution, and he held 
it wrong to look upon it in any exclusive 
worldly point of view. When he first felt 
his affections drawn towards Mary Ellis, a 
young woman whom he had known for 
several years, and whom he married, he 
prayed for divine counsel and guidance in 
this important concern. On mentioning the 
matter to her, he desired no answer until 
she, too, had waited upon the Lord for direc- 
tion. On obtaining her consent, he informed 
his father, who appeared to be much pleased 
with the prospect, though Mary was a 
Friend. He offered to settle a sum of money 
on Thomas ; which however he never did. 



the friend's family. 53 

On the contrary, Thomas, who knew his 
father well, thought it necessary to have 
papers drawn up and signed the next day 
after the marriage, securing to his wife all 
the money and lands she had possessed, as 
well as the little he had made, that he might 
not leave her at the mercy of his father. 

And now we are nearly done ; for his 
after-history is but the common history of 
the other early Friends. Fines and impri- 
sonments, — imprisonments and fines were 
lavishly dealt out to them all. In Thomas's 
case, these dark moments were illuminated 
by intervals of rare happiness at home, 
where his wife fully justified his love and 
esteem. 

He wrote and published many works, 
suitable for the times, but mostly now be- 
come obsolete. Several of them were an- 
swers to the attacks which Friends received 
at all quarters from priests and others. He 
spake in meetings for worship but seldom, 
in meetings for discipline frequently. He 
lived to be eighty-two years old, when he 
was taken with palsy, which deprived him 
of the use of his limbs, but left his mind 
clear and unclouded. He bore the pains of 
sickness with patient resignation, and a short 
time before he departed, uttered the words, 
" I am full of joy and peace. My soul is 
filled with joy." 

It is no real cause of mourning for an in- 



54 the friend's family. 

fant to be taken away from the earth before 
its purity has been sullied ; but it is glorious 
for the strong man, full of years, who has 
been tried and tempted, and resisted tempta- 
tion, who has "fought the good fight," 
who has (i kept the faith," to lay his head 
upon his dying pillow, saying, " Hencefor- 
ward there is laid up for me a crown of 
righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous 
Judge, shall give me at that day; and not 
to me only, but unto all them also that love 
his appearing." 



Ellwood Stewart had a clear, pleasant 
voice, and his children felt much delight in 
listening to it. When he had finished read- 
ing, they thanked both him and their sister 
for the pleasure that had been afforded 
them. 

The family was a very happy one ; and 
one reason of this was, the politeness and 
courtesy with which they constantly treated 
each other. They were not permitted, either 
by example or precept, to treat each other 
with coldness or rudeness, any more than 
they would a stranger ; and the habit of 
preferring others to themselves was easy 
to them, having been inculcated so early. 
There 'were no particular rules, no formali- 
ties observed, but each child was taught to 



the friend's family. 55 

oblige others, and to acknowledge the plea- 
sure of being obliged. 

Many, many brothers and sisters, who 
love each other dearly, do not have the 
happy hours they might enjoy, by reason 
of their indulging a petty selfishness of dis- 
position. Any child old enough to read this, 
is old enough to set about reform, should he 
feel himself to blame in this respect. 

After the children had thanked their 
father and talked a little about the story he 
had read to them, Lizzy said, "Now sister 
Mary, may I help thee set the table ?" 
" Thank thee," said Mary, " but Martha 
shall help me, and thee may carry in the 
bread and butter to help Nancy. I think 
Patty is almost too little to do that, but she 
can help me some." While Lizzy and 
Patty are washing their plump little hands, 
I may as well tell who Nancy was ; for the 
Stewart family thought a great deal of her. 
as they might well do. 

About forty years ago, when Mary 
Stewart was a little girl, and when her 
name was Mary Brace, Jane Brace, Mary's 
mother, went to see a poor sick woman in 
the neighbourhood where they lived. This 
poor sick woman had a little girl whose 
name was Nancy ; and a nice, quiet little 
thing she was, staying beside her mother's 
bed and watching her pallid face nearly all 
the time. She was too little to work much, 



56 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

but she did every thing for her mother that 
a little hand like hers could; and she went 
on any errand which her mother had for 
her to do, always doing just what she was 
bid. 

After Jane Brace found how the woman 
was, she never let Nancy go away from 
her, except to take a little walk, that she 
might breathe the fresh air; for she was 
such a comfort to the poor mother, that she 
could hardly bear to have her away. This 
woman was very sick indeed, the first time 
Jane Brace ever saw her ; and though she 
tried to do every thing for her that could 
be done ; she grew worse and worse, until 
Jane saw that she was going to die. Jane 
hardly knew what to do for her, so she 
asked the doctor if he would be so kind as 
to stop there, and tell her what he thought. 
The doctor was very kind, and went to 
see her that afternoon. He told Jane that 
the woman had a bad cough and pain in 
her breast ; but he said that was not all 
that ailed her ; he thought she must be in 
a great deal of trouble, for she was pining 
away from some other cause than sickness. 
One day little Nancy came running, 
almost out of breath, and with a very pale 
face, to ask Jane Brace to come over to her 
mother, for she was very bad indeed. Jane 
was just fitting a dress on one of her little chil- 
dren ; but she did not even wait to take it off, 



the friend's family. 57 

and put away the things. She only desired 
the girl who lived with them, to take off the 
pieces which she was fitting together, and 
put them by, and take good care of the 
children, for she did not know when she 
would be back. She put her bonnet and 
shawl on, and went over to her sick neigh- 
bour as soon as possible, carrying a little 
whey which she had got ready before. 

When she got there, Jane did not see that 
she was any worse than usual, but she 
stayed with her awhile, and used many com- 
forting words, and speaking in a soft, low, 
gentle tone, tried to make her think of 
pleasant things. She stood up close to the 
side of the bed, and laying the head of the 
poor sufferer upon her breast, pressed her 
hand gently to her forehead. This little 
action seemed to open the fountain of feel- 
ing, and the poor woman burst into tears. 
It seemed to her as if she had somebody to 
love and be kind to her, and to whom she 
might tell all her thoughts. 

So she leaned her head against Jane, and 
sobbing like a little child, said, " I beg your 
pardon for sending for you, and giving you 
so much trouble, but sure I feel the better 
for it, if you only lay your hand upon me, 
and my heart has been very sore to day." 
Jane Brace said some kind words to her, 
and the poor woman feeling encouraged, 
went on to tell her, that about five years 

3* 



58 THE friend's family. 

before, she and her husband came away 
from Ireland on account of the troubles. 
They landed at Quebec. But the man had 
never learned any thing but farming, and 
as he had no money nor credit to purchase 
a farm, he went out as a day-labourer. In 
the harvest-time they had very high wages, 
for his wife helped him all she could; and 
he being a very strong man, between them 
they made the wages of two men. This 
did very well in harvest time, but when 
harvest was over, they were thrown out of 
regular work. They lived here for two sum- 
mers, during which time little Nancy was 
born, and then thinking they could do better 
in the United States, they came over here. 

The woman's voice faltered, when she 
told her how kind her husband was to her, 
and how he blamed himself for ever bring- 
ing her away from her own comfortable 
home, to wander about in poverty with 
him. "But sure," continued she, raising 
her streaming eyes and fixing them with 
earnestness on Jane's face, " I had rather 
share his poverty, than to have dressed in 
silks and satins without him. It was only 
when he was taken away, that I grew heart 
sick." 

The husband commenced digging, as be- 
ing the most profitable work for him ; but 
the summer sun, so much warmer than he 
had been accustomed to, brought on a bili- 



the friend's family. 59 

ous fever, which left him in such a state of 
debility that it was nine weeks before he 
could go out again. She said there were a 
good many of their countrymen there while 
he was sick, and they raised a sum of mo- 
ney for him ; but he could not bear to ac- 
cept it as a gift, and the very first money 
he was able to earn, went to pay that debt, 
and that too, before he had provided any 
winter clothing for himself, wife, or children 
(for they had two children besides Nancy). 
They struggled along that winter, with just 
enough food and warmth to live, but they 
were happy in loving each other, and look- 
ed forward to better days. 

As the spring opened, the husband found 
plenty of work; his wife took in washing, 
and the children, ragged and noisy, but 
healthy and good-humoured, sometimes 
helped, or sometimes hindered their parents 
with their work. Thus they went on, feel- 
ing as if they were getting a little laid by 
for the next winter, when that terrible fever 
came on again; putting the husband com- 
pletely out of heart. Having a good con- 
stitution he struggled through it, and went 
to work before he was able, but the fever 
returning again, with no energies of either 
mind or body, he soon fell a victim to it. 
The little place where he lay was so damp 
and unhealthy, and so close, that the rest of 
the family took it, and all lay stretched upon 



60 the friend's family. 

the bed of sickness at once. The two older 
children died, and when the poor widow 
who was delirious, came to her senses, she 
found none of her infants left to clasp to her 
bursting heart, but her youngest, her little 
Nancy. Strangers' hands had buried her 
other little darlings. 

It was long before she could realize that 
they could be gone. Her intellect enfeebled 
by illness, and unconscious of what passed 
after she herself was taken sick, still clung 
to the belief that they had only gone away, 
and she would question her little girl, hop- 
ing to find some clue to them from her half 
formed words. 

After a while she grew stronger, and when 
she came to see that she was indeed strip- 
ped of husband and children, save one dar- 
ling, she came to the determination of leav- 
ing that place, not much caring where she 
went to, but thinking any spot must be bet- 
ter than that. She had not the means of 
returning to her own country, indeed they 
had subsisted on the charity of their neigh- 
bours for a long time. So, bidding farewell 
to her kind friends, who had tried their ut- 
most to dissuade her from casting herself 
among strangers, she started off on foot, 
with her little girl holding her hand, not 
knowing where she should rest for the 
night. 

But thanks be to him who giveth us every 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 61 

good gift ; in all her wanderings, the food 
and the night's lodging were never denied 
her. 

It was in the pleasant Indian summer, 
that she thus passed from one village to 
another, and before the cold weather came 
on, she was fixed in a very small but snug 

house, in the little village of M , where 

Jane Brace found her. She partook too 
much of her husband's pride, to ask assist- 
ance; and had hungered and been cold 
many a time. She took in washing to sup- 
port herself and child ; but her constitution, 
already undermined by hardship and grief, 
sank under it, and her own imprudence. 
" Indeed," said she, " I hardly knew what 
I was doing, and sometimes in the warm 
weather when I would be washing, such a 
burning heat would come over me, that, 
saving your presence, I would dash the cold 
water right into my bosom, and that is the 
way I think I got my death." 

Jane Brace could not say any thing, for 
she too thought that was the way she got 
her death ; but it was too late to blame her 
now. So laying her down gently, she got 
the whey, and giving her a little of it to 
revive her, she turned to leave the room, 
for she thought it would be better for the 
woman to be quiet a while, as she was evi- 
dently exhausted by speaking so long. 
Nancy's mother was watching her move- 



62 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

ments, and speaking quickly and with an 
effort said, " Do not leave me yet. I have 
not said all. Nancy go out of doors, dear, 
I want to speak to Mrs. Brace." Nancy 
instantly obeyed. 

" Oh ! Mrs. Brace, what will become of 
my Nancy ? It comes over me that I must 
soon die ; and if the prayer of the widow, 
or the blessing of the orphan may help you, 
take care of my Nancy. She is a good girl, 
take her to live with you. Do Avhat you 
choose with her, only let her live with 
you." 

Jane Brace had thought of this matter 
before, and had even mentioned it to her 
husband, who knowing the strong interest 
she took in Nancy, told her to do just as she 
thought proper, only not to increase her own 
burdens too much. The increase of her 
own care was the last thing that Jane Brace 
thought about. She was almost afraid to 
introduce a stranger into the midst of her 
own little flock. Yet all that she had seen 
of the quiet, patient little girl, who attended 
her mother with such unwearied watch, 
disposed her to think favourably of her. 
Therefore if she hesitated a moment when 
Nancy's mother addressed her, it was not 
long : for in an instant the precepts came 
before Jane's mind," Do unto others, as ye 
would that others should do unto you." 
And " what thy hand findeth to do, that do 



the friend's family. 63 

with all thy might." So looking at the 
woman with a pleasant face, and answering 
in a kind tone, she told her she would take 
care of Nancy and have her to live with 
her own little children. Many blessings 
were breathed on Jane Brace's head by the 
poor afflicted creature, who seemed to for- 
get her own sorrows in the happy prospect 
before her child ; and Jane went home that 
evening with a heart and step as light as the 
consciousness of a good action performed 
could make them. 

Every day while Nancy's mother's lived 
she visited her. And when at length she 
died, and Nancy had to leave her, she did 
not feel as if alone in the world, but laid 
her little face on the kind bosom of her 
friend, while that friend's soft voice spake 
the words of comfort to her ear. 

Never did Nancy give her aunt (for by that 
kind and affectionate title was she taught to 
call her mistress) any reason to regret taking 
her. It is true she was not more perfect 
than other little girls, but she was docile and 
affectionate, and Jane loved her very much. 
When she had done wrong, Jane told her 
of the necessity of being good, if she would 
wish to please her heavenly Father, just as 
she talked to her own little ones. 

She did not send Nancy to school as she 
did her own children, for she knew that 
probably Nancy would have to work hard 



64 the friend's family. 

for her living, and her hands and limbs 
must be inured in time ; but she made her 
labour light by sharing it, and by teaching 
her the best method of doing any thing, and 
telling her the reason why. Lessons taught 
in this way are seldom forgotten, and Nancy 
soon became of some use. 

Mary was but a baby when Nancy first 
came among them; and the desolate heart 
of the stranger clung to her even more than 
to her aunt. Yet, perhaps, I am wrong — 
perhaps she only thought she loved the baby 
best, because she could caress it as much as 
she pleased, without the fear of being trou- 
blesome. She would plead to be allowed 
to nurse it, which however its mother would 
not permit, because its little frame was so 
tender that it might be injured ; but she 
would lay a sheepskin on the floor, and 
put the baby on it, and then let Nancy play 
with it for an hour or two at a time. The 
little one soon distinguished her from the 
other children, and would commence crow- 
ing and jumping, if it but caught a glimpse 
of Nancy's merry little face. 

This attachment continued ; and when in 
after years Mary married Ellwood Stewart, 
Nancy's heart went with her. Jane Brace 
was not long in discovering this ; and much 
as she valued Nancy, she was glad that it 
was so : for every mother considers her 
child's interest before her own. When it 



the friend's family. 65 

was first mentioned to Nancy, she would 
not hear of leaving her old home, and her 
kind aunt. But as Jane insisted on it, telling 
her that she would confer a favour upon 
both herself and her daughter, Nancy con- 
sented, though somewhat reluctantly, for 
she could not help fearing she was guilty 
of ingratitude. 

And now was Jane Brace fully repaid for 
all she had ever done for Nancy. Nancy 
was not only a help, in a domestic point 
of view, but a faithful person in the great 
business of life, in training the family for 
heaven. 

As the children grew older, they under- 
stood Nancy's true position in the family, 
and treated her accordingly. While anxious 
to have her appreciated by the younger 
ones, they made it a far greater favour to 
be allowed to assist Nancy, than they did 
to assist each other. When none but them- 
selves were present, or some intimate friend, 
Nancy sat with them, unless her duties 
called her elsewhere. Her manners were 
pleasant and agreeable ; why should they 
not be ? She had associated with those 
whom education and truth had refined 
from the time she turned from her mother's 
grave. 

What if she had not devoted her earlier 
years to school? Her education was con- 
stantly, though silently progressing; and 



66 the friend's family. 

many a (so called) lady might have taken 
a lesson from Nancy's quiet, self-possessed, 
and dignified manners. Her sense of pro- 
priety kept her from intruding. The chil- 
dren, who were taught to value her so 
highly, could not imagine why she should 
not sit at table with them, or any where 
else, let who would be present. But Mary 
Stewart, though willing at all times and at 
all seasons to show the respect for Nancy 
which she really felt, respected also the 
delicacy of feeling which prompted her to 
sit by herself, when any one with whom she 
was not well acquainted chanced to be their 
guest. 

Lizzy felt it quite a compliment to be 
asked to assist Nancy ; and after she had 
put by the doll she was dressing, and Martha 
had put away her patchwork, they went to 
a little room, or a large closet, (whichever 
persons would choose to call it,) and there 
were towels, wash-basins, and soaps, with 
two or three great pitchers, all of which had 
water in them. There was a low wash- 
stand in one corner, and close by it stood a 
large bucket, to pour the water into, after 
they had bathed in it. To this low wash- 
stand Lizzy and Patty went, and sister 
Mary, who had put her sewing by, came 
in and poured some water from the great 
pitcher into the little wash-basin, and put it 
on the low wash-stand, where the children 



the friend's family. 67 

could reach it nicely. Here they washed 
their hands, and wiped them on a towel 
which hung on a little frame. 

Lizzy then went to the kitchen, where 
she found Nancy standing by the dough- 
trough, cutting the bread into thin slices, 
and laying theui evenly one upon the other. 
" Sister Mary said I might help thee," said 
she in a very pleasant tone. " What may I 
do first ?" " Thee may bring the bread 
plates," said Nancy. So Lizzy went to the 
kitchen closet, and getting the plates down 
very carefully, she carried them to Nancy, 
who laid the sliced bread upon them, cut- 
ting the slices right down through the mid- 
dle. Elizabeth then carried the plates in, 
one at a time, and put them on the table, 
which sister Mary had already spread the 
cloth upon. 

There was a large pile of little plates on 
one corner, and Martha was taking one of 
these at a time, and putting it in its proper 
place, saying softly to herself as she went 
around " this is for father — this is for mother 
— this is for Elly," and so on, as she placed 
each plate. The knives and forks were in 
a box, and Mary was busy with them. 
When Martha's plates were all placed, she 
ran to the cupboard to get the salt-cellars, 
which were nicely printed when taken off 
the dinner table. They were upon the 
second shelf, where she could not reach 



68 THE friend's family. 

them ; but in her zeal to help her sister, she 
clambered upon a stool, which tipped over 
just as she had grasped the salt-cellar ; and 
down she came, oversetting the molasses 
cup, and breaking both it and the salt-cellar. 
Mary was just turning round to see what 
she was doing ; and catching her as she fell, 
prevented her hurting herself much. 

Martha's face reddened very much, and 
she began to cry a little ; but Mary soothed 
her ; and finding she was more frightened 
than any thing else, told her not to mind. 
" Oh ! but," said Patty, " I was going to 
help thee ; and only see how much trouble 
I have made." " Why yes," said Mary, 
laughing a little to show Martha she did 
not mind the trouble, " if little girls could 
only be kept in molasses, I should have thee 
preserved, should I not ?" Martha now 
began to laugh too ; and Mary, telling her 
to be right still a little while, went into the 
closet and brought from there the little ba- 
sin, with water in it, and a nice soft towel ; 
with which she wiped away the molasses 
from her hands. She took off Martha's 
apron, which was very much soiled, and 
turning it in carefully so as not to smear 
any thing with it, carried it into the little 
closet. 

She then went up stairs, and getting a 
clean apron for Martha, brought it down 
and put it on her. Mary then went to the 



the friend's family. 69 

kitchen, and tied on a very large apron 
which almost covered the skirt of her dress, 
it was so wide and long ; and brought a lit- 
tle tub of hot water, a dish cloth, and a dish 
towel, to wipe the shelf and dishes with. 
She tucked up the ends of her sleeves, and 
pinned them to keep them from slipping 
down ; and then moved all the plates and 
dishes on which there was no molasses, up 
to the second shelf. She washed and wiped 
the few that were smeared, and putting the 
dish cloth down, gathered up all the broken 
pieces of the cup and salt-cellar. She put 
these in a safe place, where no one would 
be likely to cut their hands with them, and 
washA the shelf, wiped it as dry as pos- 
sibleJP 

She then carried the little tub, the cloth 
and the towel back to the kitchen, and put 
each in its proper place; and then returned 
to the closet to rinse the molasses off of 
Patty's apron. She spread it on the frame 
to dry, intending to put it to wash on the 
next Seconded ay morning. After she had 
done all these things, which took her but a 
few minutes, she took off the great apron, 
folded it up, and put it in the kitchen, till 
she should want it again. 

When Mary went in, she saw her little 
sister looking a good deal mortified, and 
standing near the closet door. Mary smiled, 
and in a pleasant tone asked Patty to 



70 THE FRIEND^ FAMILY. 

put the cup plates around ; at the same time 
giving her the pile in her hands. Martha's 
face brightened at the thought that she might 
be of some use after all, and the table set- 
ting went on again. 

Mary arranged it very neatly; and al- 
though there was nothing which could be 
called a dainty, yet every thing looked in- 
viting; the cloth, the knives and forks, and 
every article on the table, being so perfectly 
clean and bright. There was a small piece 
of oiled cloth spread for Elly's plate to set 
on ; but Martha could eat without smearing 
any thing, and was therefore permitted to 
set her plate on the cloth. The mother 
thought it better that all the childre Aiould 
sit with them at table, when there^fcis no 
company ; as a little child learns so much 
more readily from example than precept. 

Very soon supper was ready, and Martha 
was told she might ring a little bell, which 
was the signal for the family to come to- 
gether. Mary sat at the waiter, that she 
might pour out the tea and coffee : the father 
and mother sat at the other end of the table, 
with Lizzy on one side, and Martha on the 
other. Elly, with his little plate and oiled 
cloth, sat next to Lizzy, and up next the 
waiter sat Nancy, whose little pet Elly was, 
and who undertook to supply his wants. 
Rebecca and Jane were at the side of the 
table opposite Elly and Nancy. 






THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 71 

They sat silent for a minute or two, when 
Elly, feeling as if he could not keep still any 
longer, began saying, " sugar, sugar, sugar." 
Nancy looked at him very seriously, and 
shook her head. He was quiet ; and then 
Mary began to put the sugar and cream into 
the cups. 

After she had helped the older ones she put 
some milk into a cup, and pouring a little hot 
water into it, to warm it, sweetened it, and 
gave it to Nancy for Elly, who by this time 
was getting a little uneasy. As soon as he 
swallowed it, he commenced saying "meat, 
meat, meat." And kicking his heels against 
the rounds of his high chair, seemed dis- 
posed to make himself as conspicuous as 
possible. Nancy took his little hands in 
hers, and looking him right in the face to 
fasten his attention, said very slowly and 
distinctly, " Elly must not talk now ;" and 
" I will give Elly what he is to have for his 
supper, and he must not talk any more 
now." Elly looked at her, and evidently 
understood her, for he was silent for a little 
while until he forgot ; and then was quiet 
again when she looked at him. 

Ellwood Stewart considered his table as 
a domestic school, and encouraged his chil- 
dren to converse freely. He liked to hear 
their views and opinions ; and besides this, 
he knew children would be likely to eat 
hastily, and acquire slovenly habits, unless 



12 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

they found their meals made pleasant. As 
he did not wish his children to become epi- 
cures, he did not teach them that it was of 
consequence what they eat. But he did 
teach them to find pleasure in meeting to- 
gether at the table, and conversing together. 
Unless the family was assembled in the 
common room where they dined, the little 
bell was generally rung twice ; the first time 
to give notice to any one who might wish 
to put away her work, or to do anything 
likely to detain her a few minutes. 

Very seldom was there any excuse made 
for tardiness, for they all felt it pleasant to 
draw together. Besides, they were acquir- 
ing, at small trouble and expense, the virtue 
of punctuality. No allusion was made at 
meal times to any fault which might have 
been observed ; nothing mentioned which 
could mortify one child before another. 

While they were sitting at table this 
evening, Rebecca said, "But, father, what 
queer-looking dresses they must have worn 
in Thomas Ellwood's time ! Did the men 
wear rings, and ribbons, and laces ? I won- 
der they could ever see each other without 
laughing." "Our eyes," said Ellwood, 
" become so soon accustomed to any style 
of dress, that it not only ceases to be ridicu- 
lous, but we think it positively becoming. 
Does thee not think rings and laces are 
pretty for women?" "Why, yes;" said 



the friend's family. 73 

llebecca, hesitating, " I think lace and rib- 
bons very pretty, but not rings. I never 
liked rings, ear rings especially, since I read 
of the South Sea islanders wearing nose 
jewels. It seems to me a barbarous custom 
to have either nostrils or ears bored. But 
I don't know whether I would like to have 
a finger ring or not. Thee knows I was 
never tried/' said she archly. "Fairly an- 
swered," said her father, smiling. " But 
suppose I give thee five dollars, will thee 
buy a ring with the money, or purchase a 
warm shawl for Sally Davis, who has so 
many poor children to support that she can- 
not clothe them and herself too, as warmly 
as she ought ?" Rebecca looked very seri- 
ous, and said, "Why, father, thee knows I 
would buy the shawl for her. I would not 
dare to spend the money for anything so 
foolish." "Well, my child," said thefaFher, 
" I had intended to give that sum to Sally ; 
but thee may spend it for her. Thee had 
better consult thy mother or sister how thee 
can do it most judiciously; remembering 
that a single dime misapplied is of conse- 
quence to her." 

Ellwood Stewart was not poor, neither 
was he very rich, but he tried to accustom 
his children to look on money with a refer- 
ence to its true value. He discouraged 
every unnecessary expense upon their own 
clothing, or their own pleasures ; but placed 

4 



74 the friend's family. 

the means of assisting others at their dispo- 
sal. A child generally prefers giving to 
others. We acquire the habit of selfish- 
ness, as we are taught to indulge artificial 
wants. 

When Ellwood told Rebecca, she might 
spend five dollars for Sally, she looked very 
much gratified indeed, and sat silent for 
some minutes, thinking of what dresses she 
might buy, what shoes with thick soles the 
children should have ; and then it suddenly 
occurred to her that Sally slept very cold, 
and may be she had better get some calico 
for a comfortable, which sister would help 
her quilt. 

As she was revolving these things in her 
mind, Jane took up the conversation where 
she had dropped it, saying, " well, I do not 
know much about the rings, but those long 
pointed shoes with the toes turned up and 
fastened to the knees, must have looked 
very funny; and how could they ever walk 
about? I should think they would strike 
against each other, or against any thing in 
the room." " But these fashions grew like 
every thing else," said the mother. " If we 
were to put such shoes on now, as our 
grandmothers wore, we should totter a great 
deal, and I think fall down. Don't thee re- 
member those high-heeled shoes up in the 
great chest in the garret?" "Yes," said 
Jane, " Sarah put them on the last time she 



THE friend's family. 75 

was at home, and they made her look so 
tall, only she could not walk very well in 
them, and we were afraid she would fall 
down." " Well, those shoes, though so in- 
convenient to us, our grandmothers thought 
beautiful. They made the foot look smaller, 
and probably were first worn by some short 
person who wished to look taller ; but I do 
not think she had such a thick heel put on 
at first. They must have been just a little 
raised, then a little more, and so on until 
they attained an inch and a half, if not two 
inches in height. And as to looks, we so 
soon become accustomed to any kind of 
dress, that it seems graceful and elegant, no 
matter how repugnant to true taste. It 
seems to me that the dress which corre- 
sponds with the outline of the human form, 
and which is best adapted to its easy unen- 
cumbered movements, is most suitable to it, 
if our tastes in this respect had not become 
perverted." 

" But there was one thing which seems 
very hard," said Jane, her eyes filling with 
tears. " That was for Thomas to disobey 
his father, who seems to have been very 
kind to him before he came to be a Friend. 
It must have been very hard for Thomas to 
do any thing which his Father did not want 
him to do." "My dear child," said her 
father, kindly, " it was very hard I do not 
doubt ; but even in this, Thomas was re- 



76 the friend's family. 

warded by the feelings of peace and quiet- 
ness that Almighty Goodness favoured him 
to experience. And it may be that he was 
chosen as an instrument to break down the 
stubborn will of his father. Oh ! what joy 
for him, if by any means, even the sacrifice 
of himself, he might become conducive to 
his father's salvation. Of one thing we 
may be sure, our heavenly Father is over 
all and sees all, and requires nothing of us 
without a reason. What that reason is, we 
may never know in this life; but we do 
know that a ready obedience to his will, 
gives us that peace which the world can 
neither give nor take away." 

Some neighbours coming in to spend an 
hour or two, interrupted the conversation, 
which now turned on general subjects ; and 
the younger children going to bed pretty 
soon, it was not resumed at that time. 

It was perhaps two weeks after, before 
the ordinary occupations of the family ad- 
mitted of another story, though sister Mary 
was often seen with a large old-looking 
book lying on her desk, from which she was 
taking notes ; and when at length they had 
an hour's leisure, in which the family might 
all be collected together, she produced a 
short manuscript, entitled 

JAMES PARNELL. 

One time, almost two hundred years ago, 



the friend's family. 77 

a very good man, named George Fox, was 
confined in a prison, because he felt it his 
duty to tell people when they were doing 
wrong. 

The people in those days probably did 
not like to be told they were doing wrong 
any better than we do in these ; and as they 
had the power (which we have not), they 
put any one in prison who displeased them. 

To this prison went many persons to see 
George Fox ; and among others a boy, or 
lad, about sixteen years of age, named 
James Parnell. This boy, though so young, 
and brought up in a way entirely different, 
after conversing with George Fox, felt that 
what he said was true ; that is, that every 
person has that in his own breast which 
told him when he did right. For in those 
days many said, and some actually believed, 
that certain men must be hired to devote 
their lives to studying the Scriptures, in or- 
der to be able to explain their meaning. 
Just as if the Holy Spirit which dictated the 
Scriptures, was not all-sufficient to give us 
grace to understand them for ourselves ; or 
just as if we were not all the children of 
the same great Father, who willeth not that 
any of us should perish. Why should we 
hire men to tell us what to do, when the 
Holy Spirit himself condescends to dwell in 
our hearts, if we only prepare the temple 
for him, teaching us all things ? 



78 the friend's family. 

Very probably James Parnell had never 
before heard this doctrine advanced, yet he 
embraced it at once. He is said to have had 
an excellent literary education, which he 
must have been very diligent to acquire at 
so early an age. After making up his mind 
to do what he believed to be right, — instead 
of being encouraged, loved, and honoured, 
as we would suppose, he was rejected and 
cast off by his relations ; nor do I s know that 
he had a place whereon to lay his head^ 
This, however, did not deter him from what 
he thought to be his duty. 

He saw those around him apparently hur- 
rying onward to destruction, and he feared 
not to entreat them, even at the peril of his 
own life, to return to the true path. He 
went to Cambridge, and for preaching to 
the people was driven from the town. Still 
he loved them — still he felt as if he must da 
something for them — and he returned. He 
attempted to reason with the scholars, but 
they too who ought to have known so much 
better, — they too treated him very rudely 
and badly. No usage was too rough for 
him ; but he still continued to preach, though 
often buffeted and driven from town to town. 

When he was about eighteen years of 
age, he went one summer day and preached 
to the people in a church ; for at this time 
Friends had few or no meeting-houses to go 
to. He afterwards preached in a great meet- 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 79 

ing, which had been appointed by some of 
the Friends, and which was probably held 
in an orchard or field. At this meeting, 
which was in Colchester, many persons 
were convinced of the truth. He spent a 
week going about and preaching here ; 
and when some wicked person gave him a 
blow with a great staff, saying, " Take that 
for Christ's sake," he meekly answered, 
" Friend, I do receive it for Christ's sake." 

It is difficult to believe that the time ever 
was, still less, that within two hundred 
years men were beaten, imprisoned, fined 
and put to death, because they dared not do 
that which they believed it would offend 
the great Creator for them to do. But so 
it was. The Quakers, as they were called 
in derision, because one of them had said, 
" he trembled in the fear of the Lord," were 
preached against, and prayed against. A 
meeting was held for the especial purpose 
of preaching and praying for their over- 
throw. 

To this meeting James Parnell went ; and 
when the priest who was hired for that oc- 
casion, said they were liars and deceivers, 
James wanted him to prove it. He could 
not prove it; nor could those who were 
with him. So, instead of trying to do so, 
they ordered James to take off his hat. He 
answered he would rather leave the house, 
than comply with their orders ; so he walk- 



80 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

ed out : but a magistrate followed him and 
committed him to prison. 

Here began those terrible sufferings 
which I mean to pass over as quickly as 
possible ; for I do not think we can derive 
much other good from dwelling upon them, 
than to learn how graciously our heavenly 
Father enables us to support any pains of 
the body, if we can only feel conscious in- 
nocence and peace, and fix our minds upon 
him. 

James Parnell was not allowed to see any 
of his friends ; and when his trial was to come 
on, he was fastened to a chain, with some 
other men, and led about eighteen miles ; 
being chained day and night. 

After being brought before the court, he 
was charged with having created a riot; 
which charge he so clearly refuted that the 
jury could not find him guilty. But the 
judge, failing in his efforts to make the jury 
convict him, fined him forty pounds ; which 
of course, the poor homeless lad could not 
pay. The judge ordered him to be kept in 
the dungeon of a ruinous old castle, until 
he did pay. He likewise ordered that none 
of his friends should come near him. 

The jailer's wife was a very wicked wo- 
man, and had a violent temper. She said 
many very bad things to him, too bad for 
me to repeat. His friends, though they 
could not see him, brought him victuals, 



THE FRIEND^ FAMILY. 81 

and a trundle bed to lie on. The first she 
persuaded the other prisoners to take from 
him, and the last she would not let him have 
at all ; so that he was forced to lie upon the 
damp cold stones. The walls of this castle 
were immensely thick, and into a hole in the 
wall like an oven, they thrust this good 
young man. 

This hole was about twelve feet from the 
ground, and there was a little ladder which 
reached about half-way up, set at the foot. 
The rest of the way he had to climb by 
means of the* broken wall and a rope which 
hung down in front. This he was obliged 
to do whenever he needed food or drink ; 
for though his friends wanted him to have 
a basket and a cord to draw them up, the 
jailer and his wife would not permit him 
even this small indulgence. This hole was 
very damp, and his limbs became so be- 
numbed, that as he was climbing up the 
ladder one day, with his victuals in one 
hand, he missed catching the rope with the 
other, and losing his balance, he fell on the 
stones, wounding his head, and bruising his 
body so much, that the people who took 
him up thought he was killed. 

They then put him into a hole, not so 

high up from the ground, but smaller j and 

so close that when the door was shut but 

little air could get into it. Here it seemed 

as if he would be suffocated ; but he was 

4* 



82 the friend's family. 

not allowed either to have the door open or 
to go out. His friends and sufferers in the 
same cause, loved the innocent boy very 
much, and offered for any one of them to 
lie in this place in his stead, while the rest 
might take him away for a while so that he 
might recover. When he recovered, they 
said he might come back again. But these 
cruel and misguided people would not suffer 
it. They would not allow him even to walk 
a little while in the yard. The door of his 
cell being left open once, he g^ot out into a 
narrow walk between two high walls, 
which so incensed the jailer, that he shut 
him out there, though it was in the coldest 
winter weather. 

He lived about eleven months in this hard 
manner; but his constitution gave way un- 
der such repeated sufferings, and he closed 
his pure and virtuous life within the prison 
walls. 

Before his death his friends obtained per- 
mission to visit him. To one of these he 
said, " Here I die innocently." And after- 
wards turning his head to his friend Thomas 
Shortland, he said, " Thomas, I have seen 
great things, don't hold me, but let me go." 
Then after a while, he said again, "Will 
you hold me ?" and one replied, " no, dear, 
we will not hold thee." He had often 
said, that one hour's sleep would cure him 
of all ; and the last words breathed from his 



the friend's family. 83 

dying lips were, "now I go." He then 
stretched himself out, slept about an hour, 
and quietly yielded his spirit to him who 
gave it, and in whose service he died. 

There was a silence for some time after 
the father had concluded reading this mourn- 
ful account. The eyes of the little girls were 
moist, and the tender-hearted Jane was 
weeping with her head laid on her sister's 
lap. 

The mother broke silence by saying, 
"This is indeed a sorrowful story, but there 
is one bright spot on which we may look. 
How very much his friends must have loved 
him, being willing to place their bodies in 
his body's stead. And how faithfully they 
attended him, never forgetting him, and 
never being discouraged by the rebuffs they 
met from the jailer and his wife, nor from 
the governor. They must have persevered 
through great difficulties to be able to see 
him at all. Oh ! with what a healing power 
the thought of the dear love of his friends 
must have come over the sick and wearied 
heart of James. They attended him con- 
stantly and received his last breath." 

"Yes," said Ell wood Stewart, "at that 
time so persecuted were the Friends, that 
three or four persons were regularly ap- 
pointed by the meeting to attend to those 
who were sick and in prison. These per- 



84 the friend's family. 

sons made it their business to go round to 
the different prisons where Friends were 
confined, and see that they had something to 
eat, and if need be, something to sleep upon. 

This was so well known to be the case, 
that a very lazy man contrived to be put 
in prison with some Friends, that he might 
be maintained by them ; always taking care 
to have the best, and the most of any one 
present. However the Friends soon detect- 
ed him ; and telling the governor he was 
not one of their number, the governor put 
him by himself; though he tried by the 
most abject entreaties, such as no Friend 
would ever use, to get clear. But Friends 
did not depend helplessly upon the exertions 
of others. They exerted themselves to ob- 
tain a living. Men who had been brought 
up as gentlemen, employing themselves in 
the most menial offices, rather than live in 
idleness. They refused to do prison-work, 
however ; for they felt it was not right they 
should be in prison, and to do prison-work 
voluntarily, seemed like admitting the jus- 
tice of their imprisonment. " But what is 
this other manuscript ?" continued he, look- 
ing at Mary. 

u I thought James ParnelPs life was so 
sad and sorrowful, that I must have some- 
thing more cheerful with it, and as it is so 
short, I thought thee would be willing to 
read the second one too." "Certainly," 



the friend's family. 85 

said her father. " But I must begin now, 
for I have an engagement this afternoon, 
and you can converse about them when I 
am gone." So saying he commenced. 

It was in the fifth month of the year 
1656, that two young women, named Mary 
Fisher and Anne Austin, arrived at Boston, 
before there had ever been a law made 
against the Quakers. But before they came 
on shore, the deputy governor, who had pro- 
bably heard that Quakers were dangerous 
persons, sent officers on board the ship, who, 
searching their trunks and chests, took away 
about one hundred books which they found, 
and placed them at the disposal of the coun- 
cil, which ordered them to be burnt in the 
market-place, and by the common hangman. 
The young women were brought ashore and 
committed to prison upon one proof only of 
their being Quakers. One of them, speak- 
ing to the deputy-governor, used the word 
" thee," instead of you. Whereupon this 
sagacious and wise deputy-governor said, 
he needed no more, for he now saw they 
were Quakers. 

They were shut up as prisoners, and sup- 
posed to be so dangerous in their doctrines, 
that a fine of five pounds was laid upon 
any one who should speak to them, even 
through the window. And lest this should 
not be sufficiently effectual, a board was 
nailed upon the window of the jail. That 



86 the friend's family. 

religion could not have had a very strong 
foundation which the breath of two young 
women was likely to overset. 

No one was even allowed to send them 
victuals ; but a man named Nicholas Up- 
shall, who had lived many years in Boston, 
and was a member of the church there, 
hearing with what severity they were treat- 
ed, and fearing they would starve, sent 
some money to the jailer, sufficient to pur- 
chase provision. 

Their pens, ink, and paper were taken 
from them, and they were not suffered to 
have any candle during the night. After 
they had been kept in this way about five 
weeks, the master of a vessel about to sail 
for England, was bound under the penalty 
of an hundred pounds to carry them back, 
and to let no one speak to them while on 
board his ship. The jailer kept their Bible 
and tljeir beds which they had brought with 
them for his fees. 

Such was the treatment the Quakers first 
met with in Boston, and this from the hands 
of educated and professedly religious men, 
who had left the fair fields of their own 
native England, for the uncultivated wilds 
of America, rather than not have liberty of 
conscience, that very liberty which they 
now denied to the Quakers who sought a 
home among them. Nay ! so far did their 
animosity extend, that Nicholas Upshall, the 



the friend's family. S7 

person who furnished them with money, an 
old man of good character and belonging to 
their own church, was fined twenty-three 
pounds and banished out of their jurisdic- 
tion. The fine was rigidly exacted, and 
but a month allowed for his removal, al- 
though in the depth of winter. 

On leaving Boston, he went to Rhode 
Island, where an Indian prince offered him 
a new home, saying he "would make him 
a warm house.'' 

This prince once asked him, " what kind 
of a God have the English who deal so 
with one another about their God ?" Well 
might the unsophisticated son of the forest 
ask this question, seeing the professed fol- 
lowers of him whom they called the " meek 
and lowly Jesus," inflicting wrong and out- 
rage upon each other, as well as striving 
their utmost to exterminate his own noble 
race. 

Of Anne Austin we hear nothing more. 
But Mary Fisher, about four years after she 
had been at Boston, and while she was still 
unmarried, felt it to be her duty to deliver a 
message which the Lord had sent by her to 
Sultan Mahomet the fourth ; who at this 
time was encamped with his army near 
Adrianople. 

She proceeded to Smyrna, intending to 
go on from there : but the English consul at 
that place would not permit her, but sent 



88 the friend's family. 

her to Venice. Still being impressed with 
the belief that she must see the sultan, she 
found another way open ; and, going alone, 
made her way to the camp. Here she per- 
suaded a person to go to the grand vizier, 
and tell him that an " English woman had 
come, bearing a message from the great 
God to the sultan." The vizier sent an 
answer that she should have the opportu- 
nity of delivering it next morning. That 
evening she went into Adrianople, and next 
day early repaired to the camp again. 

Here she was received, and conducted to 
the sultan, who sat in state, surrounded by 
his chiefs and great men, as he was used 
to receive ambassadors. The sultan ask- 
ed her, by his interpreters, if that was true 
which had been told him, that she had some- 
thing to say to him from the Lord God ? 
She answered, " Yea." Then he bade her 
speak on. But she, continuing in silence 
for a little while, it occurred to the sultan 
that she might be fearful of speaking be- 
fore so many men ; and he asked her if she 
desired that any might go away before she 
spoke. She answered, " No." He then de- 
sired her to speak the word of the Lord to 
them and not to fear ; for they had good 
hearts, and could bear it. He charged her 
to speak his word, neither more nor less 
than he had commissioned her with ; for 
they could bear it. 

The simple English maiden, unawed and 



the friend's family. 89 

undazzled with the magnificence of an east- 
ern court, proceeded to declare in a few 
guileless words, the testimony which she 
bore from the Almighty. The turbaned and 
bearded Turks listened with attentive seri- 
ousness to the word of Mary Fisher, who 
had periled her life a hundred times on her 
way thither with the words of life. And 
when she had finished, the sultan asked her 
if she had anything more to say. She ask- 
ed him if he understood what she did say. 
To which he answered, yes ; and that what 
she had spoken was truth. 

He then invited her to stay in his coun- 
try, saying, they could not but respect one 
who would take so much pains as to come 
from distant England, with a message from 
the Lord. Finding her unwilling to stay, 
he offered her a guard as far as Constanti- 
nople, whither she intended to go. But she 
being firm in faith that an all-powerful 
Hand would protect her, this too was re- 
fused ; although the sultan urged it upon 
her, telling her the way was dangerous, and 
full of perils to such a one as she; and that 
he would not upon any account any harm 
should befall her in his dominions. But 
she, fully believing she would be preserved 
by the Divine Master whom she loved and 
served, would not consent to any other pro- 
tection than he vouchsafed. 

The Turks asked her what she thought 



90 THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 

of their prophet Mahomet ? To which she 
answered, she knew him not, but Christ the 
true Prophet, the Son of God, the light of 
the world, him she knew. And concerning 
Mahomet, they might judge him to be true 
or false, according to the words or prophe- 
cies he spoke, adding, " If the word that a 
prophet speaketh cometh to pass, then shall 
you know that the Lord hath sent that pro- 
phet ; but if it come not to pass, then shall 
you know that the Lord never sent him." 
The Turks confessed this to be true, and 
Mary, having delivered her message, de- 
parted from the camp. She then traveled 
to Constantinople, and thence home to Eng- 
land, without receiving " hurt or scoff." 

To make her relation still more wonder- 
ful, it appears she understood not a word 
of any other language than her own. And 
besides this, we must consider that women 
are not allowed to uncover their faces be- 
fore the men in Turkey — a custom almost 
impossible for her to comply with. IUseems, 
indeed, as if nothing less than divine assist- 
ance could have enabled her to perform her 
mission. 

After returning to England, she married 
a man named William Bayly, of whom it 
was said, " As he was bold and zealous in 
his preaching, being willing to improve his 
time as if he knew it was not to be long, so 
was he valiant in suffering for his testimony 



THE FRIEND'S FAMILY. 91 

when called thereunto." Of Mary Fisher, 
or rather Mary Bayly, we hear nothing 
more ; so that she probably was permitted 
to spend the remainder of her life in quiet. 



As soon as Ell wood Steward had finished 
reading this, he took out his watch, and see- 
ing it was time to go, said he must leave 
them. The weather was very cold, and 
there was a slight sprinkle of snow upon 
the ground. Two or three of his daughters 
started up at once to wait upon and assist 
him ; and even little Elly dragged his great 
warm socks out of the closet, holding on to 
the strings and pulling them after him. 

Eliwood patted his little son's head, and 
said, " Now, Elly, I thank thee. Father is 
not going very far, and it is not worth while 
to put them on." " Then we will put the 
buffalo robe in the carriage, any how," said 
Rebecca, starting off after it. 

Where there were so many eager hands 
to assist, every thing was soon done ; and 
the father, muffled to the ears, or rather to 
the nose and eyes, they being the only fea- 
tures visiblej by the affectionate care of his 
daughters, — was permitted to escape from 
them. But after he was in the carriage, 
Rebecca came running out to persuade him 
to have a warm brick to keep his feet from 






92 the friend's family. 

getting cold. This he refused, with a plea- 
sant smile at her eagerness ; and driving off, 
left her wishing she could have done some- 
thing more. 

And now I must bid farewell to my little 
readers, intending, if I find them interested 
in the "Friend's Family/ 5 to give them 
some more of the true stories that sister 
Mary wrote for the children, and to tell them 
how Rebecca spent the five dollars which 
her father gave her for Sally Davis. And 
possibly I may tell them about sister Mary's 
wedding, and about a little journey she took 
afterwards. Her little sisters were always 
pleased to receive letters from her, and per- 
haps other children would like them too. 



THE END. 



FRIENDS' BOOKS 

FOR SALE BY 

T. E. CHAPMAN, 

No. 74 2V. Fourth street, below Race, Philadtlphia* 

Friexds' Miscellany, 12 vols. ]2mo. - 

Do Do single vols* 

Job Scott's Works, 2 vols. 8vo. 
Sewell's History, 1 vol. 8vo. - 

Do Do 2 vols. 8vo. 
Memoirs of S. Fothergill, 8vo. 
The Quaker, vols. I, 2 and 4, 8vo. 

Do single vols. 8vo. 
Elias Hicks's Journal, 8vo. - 
Do Do Discourses, 8vo. 
Hugh Judge's Journal, 12mo. 
George Fox's Do 8vo. 

Barclay's Apology, 8vo. - 

Wm. Bay ley's Works, 8 vo. - 

Woolman's Works, 12mo. - 

Hall and Martin's Journal, - 

Sarah Grubb's Do ... 

Jones' Analysis, 8vo. - 

Joshua Evans' Journal, 12mo. 

Rufus Hall's Do - 

Life of T. Eliwood, Svo. 

Wm. Shewen's Works, 8vo. 

Cockburn's Review, 8vo. - 

Penn's Rise and Progress, 12mo. 

Janney's Poems, 12mo. 

Dymond's Essays, - 

Isaac Martin's Journal, 12mo. 

Martha Smith's Letters, - 

Friends' Discipline, 12mo. - 
Do Pocket Map, - 

Janney on Religious subjects, 18mo. 

Emblem of Nature, 18mo. - 

Hampton's Narrative, 12mo. 

Narrative of Ann Byrd, 18mo. - 31 



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Jacob Ritter's Journal, 18mo. full bound. 

Do Do half Do 

Visit to the West Indies, 12mo. 
A Teacher's Gift, 18 mo. 
Kersey's Treatise, 18mo. 
Early Impressions, 18mo. 
The Friend's Family, 18mo. 
The Remembrancer, calf gilt, - . 

Do Do calf plain, 

Do Do roan, 

A Guide to True Peace, arabesque, 

Do Do roan 

Do Do half roan, 

Sandy Foundation Shaken, 
Holy Scripture the Test of Truth, 
Observations, by T. M'Clintock, 
Advices, Philad. Y. M., 18mo. 
The True Way, by Wm. Law, 
Deli on Baptism, 
Brief Remarks, by J. J. Gurney, 
Baltimore Defence, Do 
Sermon and Prayer, Do 
Early Friends and Dr. E. Ash, 
Two Discourses, by E. Hicks, 1824, 
J. Wilkinson's Letter, - 
Memorials, N. Y. 1832, 

Do Do 1836, 
Isaac Childs' Vision, - 
Friends' Pocket Almanac, 
Dr. Parrish's Letter, - 



31 

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WOOLLEY'S PENMANSHIP, 



ON THE CARSTAIRIAN SYSTEM. 

Copy Books, in five parts, per set, - - 50 cts. 
System, Part I, containing exercises and in- 
ductions, .... 25 " 
System, Parts II.; III. and IV., each, - - 12^ '< 
System complete, (four parts in one,) - 37§ <l 
Copy slips, No. 1, 2, 3, per set, - - 12 J " 

Believing that this System possesses merit above any 
other now before the public, the subscriber respectfully 



invites the attention of Controllers and Directors of Pub- 
lic Schools thereto. Private teachers, who have personal 
experience respecting previous works of the kind, will 
doubtless perceive the advantages of these publications, 
The simplicity and philosophical correctness of the Car- 
stairian System enables the student to acquire a clear and 
elegant hand, and to execute the same with surprising 
ease and celerity. 

.Parents would, by placing these books in the hands of 
their children, find that they might improve themselves 
very much. The exercises and copies being printed, and 
directions for using them, would enable the child to learn 
the System by a moderate degree of practice. 

RECOMMENDATIONS. 

T. E. Chapman, 

I have examined " Woolley's Copy Books," designed 
to facilitate the teaching of Penmanship by the Car- 
stairian system,*and I think them decidedly superior to any 
other published copy books with which I am acquainted. 

Should they be approved by the Controllers and Direc- 
tors, I shall immediately commence using them in the 
school under my care. Very respectfully, 

JAMES RHOADS, 
Principal N. W. Public School. 

April 7th, 1841. 

To T. Ellwood Chapman, Philadelphia. 

I have examined Woolley's Carstairian System o: 
Penmanship, and believe it is calculated to facilitate the 
acquisition of an easy and correct hand, in a superior man- 
ner to any that has been adopted. 

MARY H. MIDDLETON, 
Principal of the Female department of Third Street 

Public School. 
Philadelphia, 4mo. 22, 1841. 

Gentlemen, May, 5, 1841. 

I have examined your books, and presume that in the 
hands of a teacher acquainted with the system, they may 
be very valuable aids in acquiring an easy legible hand- 
writing. Very respectfully, 

E. A. JONES, 
Prin. Zane St. Intermediate Public School. 



Mr. T. E. Chapman, 

Dear Sir — I have cursorily examined the Copy Books 
you submitted to me on the "Carstairian System of Pen- 
manship, by G. W. Woolley," and am of opinion that 
they are peculiarly calculated to give freedom to the hand 
and to make good writers if they are closely adhered to. 
With much respect, I am yours, &c. 

W. G. E.AGNEW, 
Principal Zane St. School, Boys' Department 
I concur with the above, L. C. SMITH, 

Principal Female Department. 
I have examined the series of " Copy Books on the 
Carstairian system," published by T. E. Chapman, and 
consider them preferable to any thing of the kind that I 
have seen. I shall make use of them in my school, be- 
cause I am persuaded that, with reasonable care on the 
part of the teacher, the pupil can scarcely fail to acquire 
a good business hand, by practising the exercises which 
these books contain. ELL WOOD WALTERS. 

No. 187 Bowery e 
I concur with the sentiments of approbation as above 
expressed by Ellwood Walters, and purpose to introduce 
the said Copy Books into the school under my care im- 
mediately. D. J. GRISCOM, 

Prin. N. Y. Mo. Meeting School, 

Philadelphia, April 27, 1841. 
~ Dear Sir — I have examined your series of Copy Books, 
and from having partially pursued the same system for 
several months, have no hesitation in saying that it pos- 
sesses decided advantages over the usual methods, of writing 
as taught in our schools, and that if your Copy Books are 
introduced by the Board of Controllers, it will soon be the 
only system made use of. Fours, &c, 

WILSON H. PYLE, 
Principal N.E. Public School. 
I take pleasure in stating that I have examined Wool- 
ley's new system of Writing Books, and consider them 
an improvement upon the common books in use, and cal- 
culated to abridge the arduous duties of teachers. 

S. B. RITTENHOUSE, 
Principal Havre de Grace Academy. 
August 18, 1842. 



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